Potential
by Joon
Summary: Once upon a time, there was an angel and a demon.... (Sequel to Here's To You) FINISHED! (10-20)
1. Home

Title: Potential Author: Joon Rating: R Feedback: YES! Archive: Sure, just drop me a note.  
  
Timeline: Takes place a year after "Here's toYou." Year as in earth time.right. Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale belong to PTerry and GNeil. All other characters are mine.or at least my personal interpretation of them. Summary: Once upon a time, there was an angel and a demon..  
  
Author's Note: I know readers out there weren't exactly cheering about how "Here's to You" ended, plot-wise, I mean. And I have to admit that while I thought about ending it there, this plot bunny began to grow in my head. We get to see Walter Kettich again, who was in "Earthly Possessions" and was responsible in some ways for getting Crowley started on this little path to rethinking his life.  
  
So, for those of you who want to risk knowing more past the rather bleak ending of "Here's to You," read on. The story of Crowley and Aziraphale in my rather sadistic hands continues.. ***********************  
  
"Really, Crowley. It's quite heartless of you," admonished Aziraphale.  
  
Winding a length of lo mein noodle around his chopsticks, the black-clad demon smirked. "Me? A demon? Heartless? Well, who knew?" he said, chidingly. The grin on his face widened a little more as Aziraphale's blue eyes remained looking thoroughly stern and reproachful.  
  
"They're utterly defenseless, Crowley. They look to you to take care of them and all you do is frighten them," said Aziraphale, extracting a piece of ta chien chicken from his carton.  
  
"They're my bloody plants."  
  
"You're utterly cruel to them."  
  
"Oh, you want to talk cruelty, angel? Let's talk about the little Garden of Death you had going in your yard."  
  
A slightly annoyed scowl appeared on Aziraphale's face. An expression Crowley had found to be rather fun to provoke. He'd grown fond of it sometime around the turn of the century.  
  
"What happened to my plants is completely different from-"  
  
"They were utterly defenseless, Aziraphale," said Crowley, repeating the angel's words, imitating the mournful tone. "They looked to you to take care of them."  
  
"I did look after them!"  
  
"If by that you mean you slowly murdered them with over-watering and poor fertilizing. At least when I toss out my greens I do it quickly. That lot had to go through a long, slow death. Except that one you accidentally sat on. That one got some mercifully quick demise," Crowley added.  
  
"I tripped and the poor thing was just right there," said the angel, glumly into his little white carton.  
  
"I think you underestimated the difficulty of plant-caring."  
  
"How hard can it be, honestly?"  
  
"Honestly, Angel of Flora Death?"  
  
"Perhaps I could start off with something a little less.dependant?"  
  
"Cactus?" Crowley suggested. "At least if you squish that one it can get some revenge before it expires."  
  
Aziraphale coughed around his mouthful of ta chien chicken, though Crowley could tell it was a poorly disguised laugh.  
  
From his seat, Crowley supplied the laugh. But he soon stopped when a force out of nowhere seemed to hit him sharply across the back of the head. The world exploded in a burst of red and white lights, making all images fade in a haze of lights that made the demon reflexively close his eyes. For one odd moment, Crowley thought something had actually knocked him completely out of his body. He certainly couldn't feel it anymore.  
  
But then he could.  
  
A stone against his cheek.  
  
A searing hot rock against his leg.  
  
The humid air surrounding his left arm.  
  
And several miles away, teeth gnawing on his right arm.  
  
The Dump.  
  
+++++++++++++++++++  
  
"I.I'm not entirely sure HOW, sir," stammered Crouch. "I just don't know."  
  
"I don't expect you to know, Crouch!" thundered the Prince of Hell.  
  
Scurrying off to one side, away from the direct line of shouting he was getting from his Lord, Crouch scratched deep lines into the hot stones, thinking rapidly. "It.it could just be hallucinations. We have seen this in the Dump. Many have-"  
  
"It's not a hallucination, you festering maggot," snapped Lucifer. "That snake dreams." Being called a 'festering maggot' lifted Crouch's spirits a little, along with some hope that he would actually make it out of this in one piece. If Lucifer saw fit to compare him to a maggot, he couldn't *really* hate him completely. "We do not dream here. Not one has penetrated our walls," said Lucifer, lowering himself back onto his throne. "How is he doing it?" The last part was said almost thoughtfully to himself.  
  
Crouch shifted nervously, running a few more lines into the hot floors with his fingernails as Lucifer tapped his on the armrest of his throne.  
  
"Go and wake him up," ordered Lucifer.  
  
Crouch grinned. Such magical words. Eagerly, the demon jumped up from its half-sitting position, his long nails swiping one last line on the floor.  
  
"Under no circumstances do I want you to let our Crowley fall back asleep and have another dream, you understand?"  
  
"Oh, yes, sire, thank you. Thank you!" slobbered Crouch. He controlled himself from raking his nails across his own arms in delicious anticipation. Best to keep them sharp for the job at hand. It also wouldn't do to start going all ribbons around the Prince of Hell.  
  
"Go,"  
  
+++++++++++++++++  
  
Walter Kettich had forgotten how dreadfully wet London could be.  
  
The faint drizzle that had started earlier had now grown up to a full rain storm, suitably dampening Walter as he walked down the bustling streets. Around him, Londoners who were all protected by either an umbrella or a mack, saw him exposed to the downpour. They noticed the fact that he wasn't fanatically packing rain gear and thought only thing: tourist.  
  
Walter felt rather good about that.  
  
It had been nearly two years since Walter had said "Sod this" to his job as a security guard at the British Museum and "Piss off!" to his sad life in England to head to America. During his intense and extended road trip throughout the States, Walter had made America his new home with great gusto. He loved everything about the odd, contradictory country. The excessive patriotism he found in certain states. The bizarre intensity and speed with which the inhabitants of New York moved as opposed to the languid, comparatively comatose pace of Californians. The frigid weather of Minnesota to the desert heat of his favorite state, Arizona.  
  
And the food! Walter hadn't known food could actually taste good. That it was actually possible for food to be more than something a human needed in order to live. Had it been up to Walter, he would have stayed in America forever, living happily amongst the desert sands of Phoenix and eating barbecue chips. But it seemed fate had other ideas.  
  
A death in the family. Walter's mum. His family had always viewed him as useless and unimportant, but his presence was required.  
  
In the old days, Walter would have taken to the task imaging Sisyphus and his stone. But the shining optimism of the American way had run its course on Walter and he carried it with him as he looked toward two full weeks with his family. He had surprised his father by making rather quick arrangements and taking care of all loose ends. Typically, his father berated him after recovering from the momentary stupor, demanding to know how Walter could function when his mother had died.  
  
So the ex-Londoner had gone out for a walk.  
  
It was strange how aimless as he was, Walter found himself making rather decisive turns around corners and across streets and puddles until he found himself drenched and standing in a familiar street.  
  
It was a little different since he had been there last, but there was no mistaking it. This little SoHo area had been one of his last stops before taking off from London to begin his pilgrimage across America. Inexplicably, his thoughts turned to the small little bookshop where he had purchased his travel guides.  
  
The guides had been his bibles in the beginning. Each one had been incredibly helpful. Almost magical in how it always had *exactly* what Walter had been looking for at that moment, though he wasn't sure why each one devoted three chapters to the best sushi restaurants in every state.  
  
Running a hand through his wet hair, Walter looked around the nearly empty streets. He squinted against the heavy drops of rain that splattered against his face, looking for the dilapidated wooden sign that hung over a green door, mold covered letters reading "Mostly Books." He could have sworn it used to be just next to an old video store. But instead of the unwelcoming, fire-hazard of a broken down bookstore Walter so dearly remembered, there stood a shining, well-lit shop.  
  
The green door was now a glass one as was the entire side of store that faced out on to the street. From where he was, Walter could see several computers and laptops on display. Cheerful, bright red letters were spread out above the glass doors, reading "Computer Corner!" Behind the display of the sleek looking electronics, Walter could see people in bright blue shirts with matching bright smiles talking to customers.  
  
Everything about the place shouted, "Welcome! Come in! Be our friend! Stay as long as you want! Look around! We like you!"  
  
It was so different from the bookstore that had had the exuded a sense of "Enter.if you must."  
  
Walter frowned. He supposed the bookshop had finally been forced to close. He stared a little longer at the new computer store, watching as a blue clad grinning sales person led a couple toward a silver laptop that looked like it could launch a spacecraft with one keystroke.  
  
"How depressing," muttered Walter. 


	2. Paradise

Hello my incredibly kind and patient readers. Here is the second chapter. All previous intro stuff still applies, but here is a new disclaimer:  
  
I do not own the Metatron. Definitely not the Metatron that appears in this story. Thanks to a little film by Kevin Smith, the Metatron in my mind will always have a plummy accent, dispense the snark like nothing else, and look like Alan Rickman. SO, this Metatron belongs to equal parts Kevin Smith and Alan Rickman. I am humbly borrowing him.  
  
******************  
  
Heaven was Paradise.  
  
It had all the tranquility and peace any being could ever imagine.  
  
And currently, a visiting angel named Aziraphale was starting to feel bored.  
  
Unlike most inhabitants of the Heaven, Aziraphale preferred to walk in lieu of flying. There were times when the angel would stroll, his head bowed, lost in his own thoughts and deaf to the sounds of flapping wings. He move and wander for several hours. Or perhaps days. It was difficult to tell the passage of time here. But then Aziraphale would lift up his head in the middle of his wandering and drink in the sight of a hundred upon thousands of wings fluttering above his head in a virtual blanket of colors. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he felt wonder. He hugged the sensation to him. Such feelings were rare these days.  
  
"Good day, Aziraphale."  
  
Jerking up from his thoughts, Aziraphale looked over to see a smiling Grigori by his side and suppressed an urge to groan.  
  
"Er..hello...."  
  
"Hillel," supplied the angel, helpfully.  
  
"Oh, yes...Hillel. Sorry," apologized Aziraphale, hoping this would be a quick talk.  
  
"Not at all," assured Hillel, continuing to smile. "How are you today?"  
  
"Fine," answered Aziraphale. "Just fine." A small flicker of something crossed the other angel's face. It was then that Aziraphale remembered that lying, even delicate fibbing was futile in Paradise. Especially among the angels. "Ah, sorry," Aziraphale apologized, sounding more resigned than regretful.  
  
"Not at all," assured Hillel again, his smile still as bright and as encouraging as ever. He continued to stare at Aziraphale, expectantly. Staring at the patient, slightly patronizing, irritatingly benign face, Aziraphale could easily think of a disparaging remark Crowley would have made to force the Grigori to move on. In fact, Crowley could probably do it with one look and-  
  
Aziraphale stopped, realizing where his train of thought had gone and looked away.  
  
"Aziraphale?" prompted Hillel.  
  
"I'm feeling a little....melancholy, I suppose," Aziraphale said, truthfully.  
  
"Melancholy?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But...this is Heaven, Aziraphale. Heaven," he repeated, as if the word alone should clarify some point for Aziraphale. And there was that encouraging smile again.  
  
It seemed to Aziraphale, in his opinion that Hillel was rapidly getting on his very stretched-to-its-limits angelic patience. Especially with that blank grin of his.  
  
"I am in Heaven, Hillel," he tried, calmly. "But it seems that...it does not matter to me," he said, almost to himself in trying to articulate his own depression.  
  
A sudden silence seemed to descend over all of the Heaven. The constant sound of feathers and wings ceased and Aziraphale suddenly had the feeling that there was now a very intense spotlight on him. He noticed Hillel taking a tentative step away from him, though the angel tried to look nonchalant doing it. Aziraphale thought perhaps he should be embarrassed by all of this. Instead, he felt a small tingle of bizarre power and window to his escape.  
  
"In fact," continued Aziraphale, taking a step forward and closing the distance between him and Hillel. "These days I often wonder just why...why I am even here."  
  
Hillel took another step away, his smile faltering just a little. "Aziraphale....you remember. You are an angel. You remember your purpose," he said, as if trying to jog Aziraphale's memory.  
  
"I find myself questioning, skeptical of certain things. Even do-"  
  
"Yes, yes...well....I...." Hillel interjected, managing to do so without completely losing his smile. "It was very...this was a very unique conversation I've had with you, Aziraphale," he managed while Aziraphale continued to stare at him. "I...ummm....that is..."  
  
"Hillel, do finish up before the Second Coming rolls around," stated a droll voice.  
  
Aziraphale turned around toward the source of the voice. Behind him, Hillel bowed low in the presence of the Metatron.  
  
"Metatron," Aziraphale greeted, his general tone lacking all the reverence shown in Hillel's bow.  
  
"Fancy a stroll?" asked the Metatron.  
  
Wordlessly, Aziraphale fell in step with the Seraphim, while Hillel flew off, relief pouring out from his very feathers.  
  
"Well, that's a nice change of pace," stated the Metatron, watching the angel fly off. "Before you came back, I was always the one that got them scattering about in fear or worry." He grinned over at Aziraphale, but unlike Hillel, the gesture was neither encouraging nor bright. Rather, it was more a smirk.  
  
"Why do they scatter away from you?" asked Aziraphale, curiously.  
  
"It goes with the job," said the Metatron, casually. "You're the Voice of God long enough and suddenly everyone starts to think that I'm talking for Him whenever I say a word. Puts people off color, thinking their talking to their Creator. I won't lie, it was good for a laugh at first. But now it's just gotten bloody annoying. Can't go anywhere without everyone getting that petrified look in their eye. It's like flying along a flock of deer perpetually caught in headlights."  
  
Aziraphale noted that deer did not fly, but decided not to mention it. "So," continued the Metatron. "I came to enquire if you have decided yet when you're planning on returning to that charming little cold island of England."  
  
"Oh, I haven't given it much thought," said Aziraphale, distractedly.  
  
"You've been up here for six bloody months, how long do you need to ponder on it?" asked the Metatron. "Look, you have your basic mission on earth. You've been doing it since those two got the boot."  
  
"But not terribly well," said Aziraphale, darkly. For a moment, his memory reopened and images of death, torture and the general cruelty capable within in the human mind came back to him. Roughly, he shook it off and noticed the Metatron looking at him. "I need a little bit more time to think."  
  
"Why? Do you have plans to scare all the choirs of angels before you go?" demanded the Seraphim.  
  
"Scare them?"  
  
The Metatron fixed him with a dry look. "You're walking around, throwing around words like "skeptical" and "questioning." I thought Hillel back there was going to have a heart attack...if that were possible."  
  
Irritated, Aziraphale scowled slightly. "It's like walking around eggshells around here."  
  
"And you've only had to deal with that for six months. Try a millennia," replied the Metatron. The Seraphim sounded almost friendly toward him, which was something Aziraphale was not used to. In the past, the Metatron had almost always regarded him with an impatient, surly look. Something rather familiar to how he had behaved toward Hillel a few moments ago.  
  
"It's all different now....for me, Metatron," said Aziraphale, quietly. "Very different." He looked away, his melancholy catching up to him again.  
  
"And this is the smallest choir boy singing just for you," retorted the Metatron.  
  
The singularly unsympathetic tone made the other angel look up sharply. At the gesture, the Seraphim smirked a little again. "Of course things are different," he said. "You're different." At Aziraphale's slightly confused look, he continued. "Ten centuries ago I'd have seen you look all hurt at that comment. Now you have the good sense to look insulted."  
  
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Aziraphale replied, coldly. He stepped away from the Metatron to move past him.  
  
"Think you're the only one who hasn't ever changed or felt a little doubt?" asked the Metatron.  
  
Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. He turned back. "Who...oh..." This time, Aziraphale had the grace to look embarrassed.  
  
"If he could hear you he'd be royally pissed off. You'd think trying to conquer Heaven would make one somewhat memorable," mused the Metatron.  
  
A small shiver of worry ran through Aziraphale. He looked up, anxiety shimmering in his eyes. "Metatron...are you saying I'm in danger of..."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," said the Seraphim, dryly. "You are one of the more unusual cases, but so far you're not in any real danger. A couple of angels have questioned before and been alright."  
  
Aziraphale looked at him, incredulously. "I don't believe anything ever changes up here," he said, gazing back up at the flying hordes above them. "I thought the stillness of it all would help me," he added, almost to himself.  
  
"Dealing with them," said the Metatron. "Well, sometimes it can't help but change you."  
  
"Them?"  
  
"Humans," the Metatron clarified. "One of His more...unpredictable creatures." Walking up to Aziraphale, the Voice of God looked up as well and matched Aziraphale's stance. "What you have to remember, Aziraphale is that of all the thousands upon millions of angels there are only a small handful ever come into actual contact with humans." He lowered his eyes and looked back at the lower angel, who continued to stare up at the swirls of color and feathers. "But for the few that do, it does change them."  
  
Aziraphale broke his stare to look over at his companion. "Did it change you?" he asked.  
  
The Metatron gave him a look that suggested just how brainless a comment that was. Did he really think the angel picked to be the Voice of God had always been this surly?  
  
"I remember the exact time I thought up my first question," said the Metatron, conversationally. "I was delivering a message."  
  
"You deliver messages all the time," said Aziraphale.  
  
"Hundreds, especially back then," agreed the Metatron. "But I remember the exact moment I delivered this message and the exact second the boy comprehended me. He looked up at me and said, "No. Please, no." And it wasn't because he didn't believe me. It was because he did. And he was scared."  
  
"Joshua."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Aziraphale looked closely at the figure of the Metatron. Usually the Seraphim struck him as either imposing or irritating, depending on the situation. Now he looked strangely thoughtful. "I thought at that moment...looking at that frightened child, why? What was the point of putting all of that on a boy? It just didn't seem fair."  
  
"No...it didn't," agreed Aziraphale, truly meaning it, rather than being polite.  
  
"But I didn't quit," said the Metatron. "I did my job. I didn't have to. I could have just chucked it all away like the First One." Aziraphale gave him a horrified look. "But I stuck with my job. I kept my faith. And I didn't take a half-year sabbatical to moon over it either," he added. "Look, you've been through a rough patch and I sympathize with you, I really do. But you're not doing any good silently moaning over all these new questions and terrifying your compatriots," he said, straightforwardly.  
  
"It's not just questions, Metatron," Aziraphale said, sharply.  
  
The higher angel gave him a speculative look. "Thinking about your demon friend, are you?" he asked, casually.  
  
"We're not friends," Aziraphale snapped. "As you reminded me upon several occasions, he is a demon. The enemy. And I do have every right to stay here longer if I wish. It is specifically stated in my agreement that I can take time to reconvene here for as long as I see fit."  
  
The Metatron made a surrendering gesture. "Please yourself. If you want to stay up here where it's inert and static, that's up to you." As he turned to leave, he cast one last look on Aziraphale. "Just remember Aziraphale, I've noticed the one good thing about change is that it usually doesn't happen just once. It happens lots of times. Going from piss god awful to rather pleasant. Job'll tell you that."  
  
"Is there a point?" asked Aziraphale, striving at least to *sound* polite.  
  
The Metatron shrugged. "No point. Just an opinion," he said, turning around and walking away. 


	3. Sanctuary

Here's the next part. 

******************

*Bloody weather*

Walter was distinctly under the impression that if there was a God, England was His testing ground for Noah's Ark, the Sequel. He had listened to the weather report this time before venturing out and rain had not been listed. But the minute he had pulled on his jacket to step outside, the skies had opened and sheets of water were now falling.

"Shut the bleeding door! You're letting the rain in!" bellowed his father from somewhere inside the house. "And remember to pick up the stationary cards. I want to do them all tonight."

"Yeah, dad."

"Don't forget," warned the low voice.

"Yeah, dad," sighed Walter. He recalled a vision of himself a few years ago when his father had shouted at him with that special tone of anger and indifference that only his father could mix so well. Walter had voicelessly mouthed a hundred curses to his father's retreating back and had barely held in the urge to mime punching his father with impotently flailing fists. Walter felt a slightly self-deprecating grin form on his face at the memory. 

Grabbing a battered old umbrella for some protection, Walter set out for SoHo. Part of him wanted to hail a cab to avoid the torrents of rain. But the trip back to England had cost him quite a lot and he needed to save here and there so that he would have enough to catch the first flight back to America the minute this was all over. 

The rain pelted hard against the frail umbrella. Its small diameter didn't give Walter much protection as he felt the front of his trouser legs dampen quickly. By the time Walter reached the SoHo area, his legs were soaked. 

*Sod it. I'm taking a cab back* he told himself. As he walked in the direction of the stationary store, he passed a small, drab looking church. It's stained glass windows looked like it hadn't been properly cleaned in awhile, but Walter could still see the colors lighted up by the candles that burned inside the little stone construction. The contrast of the grim stone walls to the pathetic, but constant bits of colored light made the place look oddly cozy. 

Walter had never given much thought to religion. It had always been a passing topic in his mind's eye when he had lived in England, but soon after his trip to America, he had gotten too busy taking in the New Country to consider anything else. But seeing the friendly looking church now, he decided to light a candle for his mother. 

Upon opening the heavy door, Walter saw the church was empty, save for one occupant. Quietly leaning his umbrella by the door, he stepped toward the small cluster of candles to add another flame to the bunch. Despite his careful treading, he could hear his footsteps ringing throughout the chapel. 

As he walked past the front most pew, Walter saw the only other person in the emptied place. His blond head was slightly bowed as he kneeled in front of the pew, caught in the middle of a prayer. He half-studied the huddled figure as he lit one extinguished candle. The man was wearing a rather shabby looking coat that looked like it had seen better days perhaps a few years ago. But it was dry and Walter guessed he had been in the church since early this afternoon. The body inside of the coat looked a little tense. Almost coiled to spring at any moment. There was something definitely familiar about the man, though.

Making a slightly clumsy sign of the cross, Walter hesitantly began to approach the still praying figure, trying to sift through his limited file of London acquaintances to figure out just why he looked so familiar. The blond shifted to cross himself to end his prayer when Walter suddenly recognized him.

It was the bookshop owner. 

He looked exactly the way Walter now remembered him, right down to eyesore of a jumper he had on. "Excuse me?" said Walter, softly. 

Abruptly, a pair of blue eyes looked up at him and recognition flickered quite clearly past the man's features. "Oh, it's you," he said.

"You remember me?" asked Walter, startled. 

The man rubbed a tired looking eye with his hand as he rose from his knees to sit back on the hard wooden seat. "Yes, you once bought some travel books from me," he replied. "Mr. Kettich."

"Bloody hell, you have a fantastic memory," grinned Walter. "This is incredible! I've JUST come back from America and here you are." Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped down next to the man with a sudden rush of enthusiasm and gratitude. "Your books were brilliant! You really gave me the best of the bunch. Two days and I felt like I knew every state I visited like the back of my hand!"

A small smile drifted across the former bookshop owner's face, which strangely had the reverse effect of making him look more melancholy. Looking at him properly now, sitting dejectedly on the stiff bench in the pilling jumper and tattered old coat, Walter concluded the man was a sad sight indeed. 

"If you don't mind me asking," said Walter. "What happened to your shop? I went round there just yesterday and now there's some computer store." 

The other man looked mildly amused. "A computer store? Oh, I just finally sold the space. Many people were asking for it and…" he gestured vaguely. "I just wasn't looking to stay…in the business, I suppose."

"Oh," replied Walter. "Rotten luck." The former bookshop owner nodded in passive agreement. Walter stared at the silent man a bit longer. Under most circumstances, a person would have told Walter to stop staring as it was blatantly obvious that he was studying his companion. But the shabbily dressed man seemed to have forgotten already that Walter was beside him and was now looking blankly up at the old, dusty alter of the church. 

There was something about the man, his countenance that made Walter feel like whatever problems he might have had in the present or past were absolutely no match. Looking at the defeated expression, he felt an odd desire to do something. His time in America had re-ignited Walter's former sense of helping his fellow man. But this case just felt different. Maybe it was because he had once supplied him with unusually good travel guides, but Walter felt like he owed a debt to him somehow. 

"Look," began Walter. His voice seemed to startle the other man out of his downtrodden reverie. "I'm guessing other than the loss of your bookshop, SoHo is still more or less the way I remember it. I think there's a pub 'round the corner from here. Fancy a drink?" he invited. 

+++++++++++++++++

"Bloody lies, I say."

"Oh, what would you know. You haven't seen nothing but that rock since you got here."

"At least I CAN see. My eyeballs weren't weren't trampled a century ago."

"You promised you wouldn't bring that up!"

"Shut your gob!"

"You're bloody lucky my hand at least sixty meters from here or else I'd give you a bashing."

"Oh, yeah? How'd y'see me to bash me?" 

"For fuck's sake, SHUT IT THE PAIR OF YOU!!"

A disembodied leg in the near vacinity agreed with the last statement by kicking the two squabbling demons. Or rather the first demon's face that was partially fused into the floor and the second demon's neck that was sticking up at an odd angle. 

"I still say it can't be possible."

"But it is. I heard the information came from Taph who's crushed in right by him."

"Taph?"

"Over in the Western Sector!" shouted a voice a few yards off. The owner of the voice, who was also apparently the owner of the kicking leg from earlier was now moving it, gesturing toward one direction. 

"But it's impossible. Dreaming? That's ridiculous."

"That's what I thought, but it's true. Eight times now. Just nods off and he's mumbling. Dreaming and smiling and all. Taph's seen it."

"How does a dream get in here? Wouldn't Lucifier...well, wouldn't he prevent it?"

"Maybe he can't?" supposed the first demon, earning a kick from the leg again.

"Are you bloody mad!?" shouted the leg's owner from his position a few yards away. "Don't say that!"

"But he's got a point," agreed the other, albeit reluctantly. "A demon dreaming...now I've heard it all." 

"But it's that snake. That native one. He's always been a bit funny," said the first demon.

"I never found him much amusing," sniffed the second demon.

"Not that way!" shouted the leg-owner, overhearing. "He means he's strange!"

"Oh, right. But isn't Lucifer going to do something about it?"

"What can he do?" called the leg-owner.

"I heard he's sent Crouch to look in on him."

"Ooohhh..." winced the second demon with some difficulty as half his face was smashed against a rock. "That's a pity. A real awful pity."

"Yeah, innit?" agreed the first demon, grinning. Had he still had this eyes, they would have been sparkling with tears of glee. 

****************

More to come. Crowley finally gets some lines! Walter and Aziraphale get a drink. More brooding, more dreaming, more torture! Feedback will be extremely appreciated! Thanks and cheers.


	4. Counsel

He had had been having a marvelous dream. 

That is until something jabbed him in the forehead. "Ow, OW! Bloody Saint Mary and Joseph!" blessed Crowley. His vision cleared to see Crouch in front of him, tapping his forehead insistently with one long, sharp fingernail. "I'm up! I'm up, you prat!" he shouted, earning a quick and painful swipe from Crouch's other clawed hand.

"Sorry 'bout earlier," said Crouch. "Got a bit carried away. Y'passed out."

"Oh, really?" said Crowley, acidly. "Do tell. I don't think I was there for all the torture."

Crouch shook his head, looking a bit mournful as he continued to tap Crowley on one spot on his forehead. "I let you dream again. He's going to be so upset," said Crouch, frightfully. "Oh, dear, oh dear," fretted the demon as he continued to poke and tap. "I'll be in trouble. Think I'll be in trouble?" he asked Crowley.

"You'll understand I'm sure when I say I don't give a flying toss," retorted the decapitated demon.

"What's a toss?" asked Crouch.

"Oh, nevermind."

"I just don't understand you, Crowley," said Crouch. His tone was conversational, almost pleasant as he continued to jab at the one spot on Crowley's forehead. Crowley would have given anything at this point to have access to his right arm to bat the offending fingernail away. 

"I'm a big mystery, me," sighed the imprisoned demon. "Look, I'm up, mind stopping now?" 

"Can't," said Crouch, looking actually regretful as he methodically continued to tap. "Don't think I enjoy this either. I was all set for a lovely bit of torture. I had lots of ideas," he sighed. "But if I knock you out again you might dream and then…" Crouch shuddered at the thought. "This is the best way I can think of to keep you awake. It's not much fun for me, you know." 

Crowley attempted to shift his head a little to move away from Crouch's fingernail. He couldn't. In frustration, he swatted with his right arm a nibbling demon head that was several yards away. "How do you get to dream, anyway?" asked Taph, from his place near Crowley's head. "I didn't think Lucifer allowed for such things."

"He doesn't," said Crouch, performing his menial, but effective torture. 

"So how'd you do it?" asked Taph.

Somewhere, miles away from his head, Crowley's shoulders shrugged. "Dunno," he muttered, clenching his eyes against the niggling pain that had formed where Crouch continued to poke him. 

"What'd you dream about anyway?" asked Crouch.

"None of your fucking business," said the demon, though his tone wasn't as harsh as his words. 

"Nightmares?" suggested Taph. " 'Cause if it's nightmares I can see how they might make it through."

"No."

"Then what?"

Crouch looked at Crowley expectantly, but the former snake demon was looking off to one side, obviously ignoring the question. "Answer him," ordered Crouch, tapping Crowley insistently. 

"No."

"Go on. I'm bored," complained Crouch.

"No."

Sharp, steel fingernails, like slivers of deadly ice caught hold of Crowley's face. For one relieving moment, the tapping stopped. Crowley could feel the skin of his face bend and tear under Crouch's hand and his blood slowly leaking onto the floor. "Answer the question," demanded Crouch.

"Or what?" asked Crowley. Speaking caused his face to rub a little against Crouch's fingers, causing the blood to run faster. "You'll torture me?" he said, wryly. "Go on. Torture me s'more," he taunted, feeling his skin get sliced into Crouch's fingernails. "Make me pass out again. Go on. Try it. I dare you."

Abruptly, Crouch let go of him and the incessant jabbing came back to the exact same pinpoint spot on Crowley's forehead. "I just don't understand you," repeated Crouch, shaking his head again as he continued with his job. "You're worse than Bartleby."

++++++++++++++++++

Before the pub, Walter and Aziraphale detoured to the stationary so that Walter could pick up the cards his father had insisted on. 

"What are they for?" asked Aziraphale, curiously as they sat down at the pub. 

"Thank you cards," said Walter. "My dad wanted to send out a bunch."

"They look a little…errr…" Aziraphale faltered as he eyed the black and gray slips of thick paper.

Walter gave him a humorless, but non-offended smile. "They're thank you's for funeral attendees." 

"Whose funeral?"

"My mum's."

Aziraphale blinked. "I'm sorry."

Walter waved away the sentiment. "Don't be. It was very quick, according to my dad. I mean, it's not like I'm glad she's dead," he hurried on, when he saw the crease form on Aziraphale's forehead. "But I didn't really know her. We weren't exactly…friendly-like and there are worse ways for people to go then in your sleep so..." He shrugged it off. "Anyway, it dawns on me that you haven't told me your name. You've got mine so it's only fair," he said. 

Aziraphale thought about making up a name. His post in the past had always come to addressed as Mr. A. Ziraphale, though he had never bothered to think of what A stood for. "Aziraphale," he said, truthfully. Walter stared at him. "Honest." 

"That's rotten luck, mate," stated Walter, sympathetically. "I thought I got saddled with a lousy one. The lads at school must have had a ripping time with that one. Your parents awfully religious or something?" he asked.

Aziraphale smiled at that. "Something like that."

They sat in momentary silence until their first drinks arrived. "You know," mused Walter as he sipped his drink. "I love America for just about everything, but England is the home of really, truly good gin. I've missed it." 

"Are you planning on staying in England for long?" queried Aziraphale. 

"Nah. Just until all this is over. Then I'm back off," he said with a wide smile.

Settling into his seat, the angel took a careful look at Walter. He had recognized the man immediately, despite the complete change that had come over the former security guard. He was tanner now and everything about him now exuded health and ease, nothing like the pale, sickly man he had once exorcised of Hastur. 

"Why did you decide to go to America?" asked Aziraphale. The day Walter had come into his shop, he had been surprised to find out the man was planning a trip. He knew that Walter had been left with no memory of the events that involved Hastur's possession of him, but what had inspired the man's sudden wanderlust was still a mystery to Aziraphale. 

Taking another sip of his drink, Walter straightened in his seat. A slightly wistful expression came over the man's face. "I dunno," he answered. "I just woke up one day and…poof!"

"Poof?"

"Did you ever have that feeling that your life was an utterly brilliant mess? That your life was just one big fat failure with maybe a pathetic smattering of accomplishments here or there? And I'm not even talking about big accomplishments, I'm talking about maintaining your flat or not being late to work or some rubbish like that." 

Aziraphale nodded, his blue eyes darkening. "Yes."

"See, that's what I had. Only I had it all the bloody time," said Walter. "But then one day I woke up and poof! It was like for one moment none of that stuff mattered 'cause I knew I could always change it."

"One moment?"

"Well, yeah," said Walter. "I mean, I couldn't just forget the fact my life was rubbish. For a second, it wasn't crushing me. I could see my way out of it, not to sound Deepak Chopra on you," he added.

"Deepak..?"

"Nevermind. He's ridiculously popular in America," Walter clarified. "Anyway, it was like some sort of invisible intervention or something. Like someone was reminding me that I was me and if I was miserable, I should do something about it. And that's when I decided it was time to leave. Start anew." 

Aziraphale nodded, feeling an odd mix of pride and jealousy. Walter had unwittingly repeated what the angel had said to him in his attempts to free the hapless man of Hastur's control. It hadn't been easy and the fact that Walter had been able to push Hastur out had alerted Azirphale to the notion that Walter was a lot stronger than people probably gave him credit for. It was oddly satisfying to see he was right and that Walter was now for all intents and purposes, happy. Azirphale was pleased for the man. As well as envious. The angel knocked back the entirety of his drink in a gulp.

"So what about you?" asked Walter as he waved the bartender over to order another round. "Why'd you sell your shop?" 

The angel shrugged. "I didn't want to keep it. I wouldn't have been able to manage it away while I was away visiting home," he added, gratefully taking his refilled drink.

"Home? You mean you're not from England?" asked Walter, frowning. "That's a laugh. I would have staked my life on you being English proper."

"No, I'm not from England, originally," said Aziraphale, truthfully. 

"So where's home?"

"A little north of here."

He saw Walter open his mouth to ask just where north. Squeezing the cold glass in his hand a little tighter, Aziraphale looked passively at Walter, who then suddenly curbed his question and instead took a sip of his drink. It was the first time since his return that Aziraphale had used his abilities. And to actually sway the mind of a human too. 

Crowley would have been awfully proud. 

*Stop doing that,* Aziraphale ordered his mind. Grimly, he drained his glass. 

"S'what's your story then, eh?" asked Walter. "From what I've got so far, you're a bloke with an unfortunate first name who doesn't have the bookshop he didn't even want anymore. It doesn't so far sound like it warrants why you look like death warmed over. No offense," he added. 

"It's a very long, taxing story," said Azirphale, a little coldly. He waved for another refill. 

"I'm in no hurry to leave," offered Walter. Crunching the ice in his drink, he saw the angel hesitate. "Look, if you're embarrassed about something, don't worry about it. My parents were the religiously closed-minded ones, not me. And besides, the rate you're going you probably won't even remember telling me anything."

Aziraphale looked at Walter's encouraging smile and frowned, confused. "Religiously closed-minded?" he asked. 

"Yeah. They were always going on about abomination this and sinner, Sodom and Gomorrah that, but really, I'm fine with it."

"I don't think I quite unders—"

"Mate, don't worry about it," insisted Walter. "I thought I had the monopoly on a crap life, believe me when I say talking about it puts things into prospective. It's never as bad as you think."

Aziraphale considered this. What *would* he tell Walter? He was an angel, who had recently realized that his several millennia stint as the representative from heaven was all pretty much a big bust? That he had managed to make friends with the Enemy and in the process had compromised everything? That despite the fact his path was relatively clear before him, he felt like a blind man lost in a labyrinth with a broken compass as his only means of trying to find his way? No, that'd probably frighten Walter a little too much. It would be best to start with something a little more basic. 

"I lost a friend."

******************

More to come! More confessionals! More drinking! More brooding! More counseling! And that's just on earth. In everyone's favorite Inferno, a certain Lord of Hell is about to get very displeased about something….


	5. Desperation

Here's the next bit. I'll actually be going on a little trip soon to England! Hurrah!  
  
I'm hoping to put in another installment before I go. We're not five chapters into this tale and I already see the end is near. Probably about another five-six chapters and it'll be THE END. Whoo!  
  
Anyway, here's the next bit.  
  
New Disclaimer: Dream is mentioned in this section and he belongs to Mr. Neil Gaiman, who incidentally, is on the cover of this week's Publishers Weekly with remarkably tamed hair. **********************  
  
"Bondage Betty!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"HA!"  
  
"It was his Sirens of S&M Mastery tape."  
  
Walter found it rather difficult not to slide off his stool in fits of laughter at Aziraphale's deadpan expression. "Did.did.anyone," he gasped, catching his breath. "Ever actually leave you a message after hearing that?" he asked, wiping his eyes.  
  
"Actually," mused Aziraphale, gulping his glass. "I think I might have actually gotten more calls thanks to that tape. Didn't do much bloody good to keep people away, really," he mumbled in slurred realization. "He might have actually planned it that way now that I think about it. Bloody snake," he muttered into his drink.  
  
As time and drinks went by, Walter noticed he had managed to take the rumpled form of his companion and make it even more rumpled. Aziraphale's worn in coat was now dragging on the floor of the pub, no doubt soaking in the miscellaneous liquids spilt on the ground. With his hair in disarray and his glasses sitting crookedly on his face, Aziraphale looked disorderly, but to Walter's mind, he also looked more relaxed. Still obviously melancholy, but at least relaxed.  
  
"Okay, okay," said Walter, trying to control his own rapidly-getting- drunker-by-the-glass body. "Explain to me again about the Queen tapes bit. I don't think I really understood that quite.so.he.what? Only listened to Queen in his car? Was that it?"  
  
"Not jus' any car," slurred Aziraphale into his small collection of melting ice at the bottom of his glass. "A Bentley."  
  
"Ooohh," chirped Walter and then sniggering at his own sarcastic tone. "I prefer Mustangs."  
  
"He was never very good with animals," said Aziraphale, gloomily. He blinked in confusion over at Walter, who seemed to find his last comment unusually funny.  
  
Capping off his laughing with a small yawn, Walter lazily rubbed a hand through his hair to try and concentrate on summing up what Aziraphale had told him over the past few hours.  
  
He couldn't really understand just how it was someone like Aziraphale made friends with someone like this Crowley. From what he could gather, Crowley was a rude, insufferable, charmingly obnoxious person who seemed to take great joys in other people's frustrations. And Aziraphale just..didn't seem like that at all. But perhaps this was a true example of opposites attracting, for it seemed the more and more Aziraphale drank, the most his earlier acerbic comments about Crowley seemed to fall into a kind of exasperated fondness.  
  
"So what was the big problem?" asked Walter. "Sounds like you two were good for each other. He made you less stringent and you made him less.less.what DID you make him?"  
  
Aziraphale grimaced. "Lynch."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Lynch. THAT was the problem," Aziraphale clarified.  
  
"Lynch? A person? Another man?"  
  
"Of a sort," replied Aziraphale. "No, no," he said, shaking his head after a thought. "It wasn't just that. He was just the cata.cata.the thing that made it all come 'round. We were very different. Too different. It was a mistake for us to.blur the lines. We should have kept it professional. Strictly business."  
  
"You what?"  
  
"Business. Just stay colleagues.well, rival colleagues and that's that."  
  
"Oh.oh," said Walter, as if slowly processing the words. "Y'know, dating your co-workers never really works out."  
  
"Errr.dating?"  
  
"So where's he now?" asked Walter, not hearing Aziraphale's confused interruption.  
  
"He went home," said Aziraphale, quietly. There was an infinitely sorrowful way in which he uttered those three words. Leaning his head against his hand on the bar, Walter studied the exponentially saddened figure. There was something about the former bookshop owner that continued to puzzle Walter. He found himself wanting very much to somehow help Aziraphale or at least alleviate the man's depression just a small bit. He knew he wasn't *attracted* to him as he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he, Walter Kettich was straight, but he did feel *some* sort of emotion toward Aziraphale. He just didn't know what.  
  
Perhaps if he had been a little less intoxicated, Walter might have been able to figure out just what emotion it was: Gratitude. He felt grateful to Aziraphale. But for what reason or another would be completely beyond him.  
  
"Where's home?" asked Walter, curiously.  
  
"A bit South," Aziraphale answered.  
  
"Hm." Walter felt himself sober slightly as he ordered his mind to try and figure out something to ease the other man's depression. Yes, taking him out drinking was one way, but he got the feeling Aziraphale would need something a bit more permanent. "Listen," he began. "If not having Crowley around depresses you this much, maybe you should contact him and have a chat at least."  
  
Aziraphale shook his head. "I can't. He's gone home."  
  
"Don't they have phones or emails at his home?"  
  
"No."  
  
Walter paused. "Wait. When you say 'home,' are you talking about final home? As in he's died?" he asked, looking a bit anxious. He grew a little more so when Aziraphale seemed to find his last comment laugh-worthy, albeit bitterly laugh-worthy.  
  
"No," said Aziraphale. "Well, actually, yes. Yes, you're right," he giggled, sounding half-drunk and now a little hysterical. "He DID die. For awhile. But he came back to life. Ruddy marvelous trick the Lord pulled on that one. Good show for Him," he said, sounding slightly resentful as he shook his drink in what might be considered a very sloppy salute. "Brought him right back and then." he gestured with his drink-occupied hand, spilling a few ice cubes across the bar.  
  
"He died, but just for a bit? Like a near-death experience?" asked Walter.  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"But he's alive now. Why don't you talk to him?"  
  
" 'Cause I don't know how!" snapped Aziraphale, suddenly. "I don't know how to bloody well get in touch with him! No phones or emails where he is to answer your question again!"  
  
Most might have been put off by the shouting, but Walter, unlike most, had grown quite used to shouting. And since to him this was also alcohol- induced shouting, it was even more excusable in his mind. For his part, Aziraphale sat dejectedly after his brief outburst, looking even more forlorn.  
  
"Everything here is just so.difficult to look at," said Aziraphale, morosely. "This weather, this city, this..everything. Everything here just reminds me of the last few years and it's just so."  
  
"Suffocating?" supplied Walter.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, then you know what I think?" said Walter.  
  
"What?"  
  
Walter grinned. "You need a trip."  
  
"Er?"  
  
"Yes, a trip," repeated Walter. "Best cure in the world, mate. It clears your mind like nothing else. Go somewhere. Airfare or even boat fare these days are dead cheap. And if you need extra money, I'll help you out," he offered.  
  
Aziraphale straightened a little in his seat and it seemed to Walter that the other man now looked completely and utterly sober. "That's very kind of you," he said, enunciating perfectly. "But it won't be necessary."  
  
"Well, then, it's perfect. You've got the means, so go. See Europe, see Africa, or best yet, go see America," encouraged Walter.  
  
"I've been to those places. I don't think it'll help me much," said Aziraphale.  
  
"You say you hate London-"  
  
"I don't *hate*-- "  
  
"Or you're sick of it," Walter continued. "Aziraphale, trust me. A trip to at least clear your head will be good for you. Get out of this bloody weather, see the sun, something. I'm serious. What you need is a good, long rest somewhere that is NOT under the rule of the Queen."  
  
++++++++++++++++++  
  
*That bloody snake is now on my LAST nerve*  
  
Even in the Dump it seemed Crowley caused problems. While Lucifer had once looked upon Crowley's ability to cause trouble a gift, he considered it now damned irritating. And also somewhat of a liability.  
  
There was talk now spreading.  
  
Talk of a demon who could dream. A demon who could dream and of how despite his efforts, Lucifer could not stop him.  
  
The Morningstar knew that no demon dared to provoke his wrath. He knew this ever since he had come up with the concept of the Dump. But he could not stop the talking, the whispering. It had started off as confusion and disbelief that he could not stop Crowley's dreams. And now confusion had given way to a kind of amazement and perhaps smugness at his failure to stop Crowley.  
  
Knowing that these dreams were still slipping past him was making him seem weak. Not in control. And it would make keeping Hell under his rule a whole lot harder. The blanket of fear he had instilled over his minions would fade a little. And even that little was not acceptable.  
  
So what was to be done?  
  
Using Crouch to keep Crowley awake was no good. Crouch excelled at torturing, but inevitably Crowley would soon pass out and the dreams would start again. He couldn't order Crowley not to dream. He could kill Crowley, but that would involve Instruments of God or Holy Water, which could get incredibly messy.  
  
He supposed he could try to contact Dream.  
  
He could foresee hundreds of problems with that plan as well, but seeing the Dream King could offer at least an answer of how it was these nocturnal visions managed to slip into the Pit. That was certainly an option, though contacting Dream would prove to be the more difficult part-  
  
Lucifer stopped in his musings for a moment as he became aware of a familiar, if unexpected sensation from within his core. A small, familiar calling.  
  
*Well.this is a surprise* he wondered to himself. Last time He had called for a chat, it had been about the snake. Perhaps it would be the same as well. It seemed Crowley was all kinds of popular these days. 


	6. Reunion

I recently watched the original "Bedazzled" with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. Very funny film. It definitely makes me think a bit more on the Devil's relationship w/God. Very apropos w/this next bit…

***************

The rain thundered down with little mercy on the sodden wasteland that would eventually transform into an acceptable farming ground once the lake-like puddles dried. All livestock were huddled underneath the roofs of leaky barns that offered some, but not very adequate protection. 

Standing in the middle of the muddy, barren field was a man. 

He wore a black jacket over a black shirt over black trousers over black shoes. The only color on him was the alarmingly bright red of his hair. The jacket and shoes were made of leather. The shirt was silk. Obviously, he had not dressed for the weather. Despite the large umbrella he held over himself, his outfit should rightfully have been soaked by the wind-slapped rain. He remained, however, as dry as a desert. There was not even a small fleck of mud on his perfect shoes. 

Watching the small lakes on the fields get deeper and deeper, the young man flinched slightly when someone behind him gave a friendly tap on his shoulder. 

"Hallo," greeted the newcomer, brightly. It was an elderly man, dressed more appropriately in a bright yellow raincoat and matching hat. His feet, however, were clad in simple sandals. 

"Why'd you want to meet here?" asked the redhead man. "It's like Noah all over again," he complained. 

The older gentleman merely shrugged and wiggled his toes, letting the mud squish between them with obvious delight. "I love the rain. You really must try jumping in a few puddles while you're here. It's incredibly satisfying."

The young man doubted it was more satisfying than pushing someone into a puddle. He cast an eye around and was disappointed to see no one else about. He looked over the old man with a contemplative eye, but decided against it. No, best that they just get on with it.

"So," he prompted, shifting a little on the rapidly unstable muddy ground. "Why the call?" he asked.

"I thought that was obvious," replied the older man, mildly, a tone which somehow infuriated the redhead in its slight condescension. "I wanted to discuss Crowley with you."

The redhead scowled. "Well, what about him?"

"I hear he's having some rather interesting nocturnal events."

"You know he's dreaming? How the bloody hell do you know?" demanded the young man. A particularly hard gust of rain hit him from the side, but the water ran off his leather jacket like off a duck's back. 

The old man shrugged, taking experimentally deep, forceful steps in the cold mud. "A bit odd, that, isn't it?" he inquired, watching his left foot sink almost completely into the ground. "Demons don't usually dream, do they? Or at least not in hell."

"Don't you know?" sneered the redhead, watching the old man walking large steps around him, squelching his feet into the ground. "I thought with your all seeing eye, you'd know."

"How silly. You know I'm not about all seeing eyes. I gave that up donkey's years ago." He began to stamp his feet now, spraying mud in all directions with mild contentment. "Anyway, I'm also here to tell you a little bit about our own representative on Earth."

"What? You mean that poncey angel?" asked the redhead. 

"Aziraphale."

"Yeah, poncey angel."

"He's back on Earth now," said the old man, matter-of-factly. "What he's going to do on Earth, however, is a bit more elusive."

"Don't you know?' repeated the younger man, snidely. "I would have thought…would you stop that?" he demanded when a particularly hard stomp from the old man's marching caused mud to fly up and hit the lapel of his jacket. 

"This is such good fun, you must try it," urged the old man. 

"You were saying about your angel?" prompted the redhead, staring at the slop of mud on his lapel. It fell back to the ground with a plop, leaving behind no trace of moisture on the sleek leather. 

"Yes, well, it seems," began the old man, finally standing still. "It seems that he is no longer fit to do his job."

"So why's he not Upstairs prancing around doing the praising and glorifying bit?" asked the redhead.

"He's not exactly fit to be with his co-workers either. At least not his old co-workers," replied the old man.

"You mean….you mean he's fallen?" asked the redhead. He frowned. Had he missed a memo? Had he gotten a new demon and not heard? 

"No, no. Nothing like that. He's just….not exactly what one would consider a typical angelic being. I'd say he's gone a bit native being on Earth for so long."

The redhead's lips twitched. He had heard that somewhere before. "So, why'd you throw him back on Earth if he's out of the job?"

"I figured he needed to be among his peers."

"His peers?"

"Well, 'peer' more like."

There was a slight pause as the redhead shifted the large umbrella from one hand to another. "Bloody snake," he muttered.

The old man looked up from his play in the mud with a slight twinkle in his deep green eyes. "You're angry with Crowley only because he's been making you look bad." The young man started at that comment. "You can't stop him from dreaming. You couldn't stop him from doing what he did on Earth. Your legions are starting to think, "Ooo, our boss isn't much good at controlling that one little demon, is he?" and it's driving you raging mad."

The young man seethed. "You…you…bloody, stuck-up, poncified bastard!" 

But the old man merely smiled. It was a serene smile that one would give to indulge a child. "I know you," he said, kindly. "I know it bothers you what they say."

"So what's it to you?" snapped the redhead. 

"I'd like to know what you're planning on doing."

Subtly, the rain began to let up a little. Neither man seemed to really notice, though a lone sheep cautiously poked its head out from underneath its sad shelter and got a face-full of rain for its exploration. Meanwhile, one member of the duo party was thinking.

What would he do about Crowley? The most obvious answer to him was to just get rid of the demon once and for all. But that would take some planning and forcing two of his more enthused followers to dispose of snake using holy instruments. There wouldn't be too many takers for that particular job. There was a good chance you would come back missing a limb or two. A small splatter of Holy Water or an accidental slip of a blessed instrument and….

And then there was the question of who he would have to take the snake's place.

It had been his opinion that even with the absence of Crowley on Earth, souls had been coming down to hell in continuous droves. Really, the serpent's job was now obsolete. It was logical to think that there was no need to find anyone to replace Crowley.

But the Feud was not about logic. 

For every white, there had to be a black. For every church built, there would be one torn down. For every good Samaritan, there would be a bastard. And if God was putting one of his workers up on Earth, then by all things heathenry he was damn well going to put up a worker there as well…and he needed someone who wasn't going to do a complete arse job of it. 

And the list was very short. 

"Why're you so interested in Crowley, anyway?" he asked, instead of answering the first question. "You were keen on saving him the last time. Why again now?" 

The old man began to stomp his feet on the mud again. "I had a bit of a chat with Crowley just before his first demise. And it got me interested." The young man cocked a curious, red eyebrow as the other continued to keep his eyes on the flying wet mud. "I saw something in him. The same thing I saw in my angel…and the same thing I saw in you once long ago." 

Having ditched the umbrella, the redhead crossed his arms and remained completely dry as he glared at his companion. "And what would that be?"

"Potential."

"Excuse me?" 

"The possibility of change," said the wizened man. "The ability to alter."

"But according to you," began the other man. "Aren't we exactly what you said we'd be? You somehow saw it all?" Despite putting on a haughty expression as he spoke, he couldn't stop the curiousness in his tone. Curiosity. A bizarre little thing that had always plagued him. Made him come up with this First Question. 

"I never said I didn't see what you would become," replied the old man, lightly. "And I could see the promise of growth in you before. And I see it in Crowley and Aziraphale."

"And you like that?" 

"Well," remarked the old man. "You were the Favorite."

The young man noticed suddenly that the rain had finally stopped. He was still completely dry, despite the lack of an umbrella. He contemplatively watched as he tentatively squished one of his leather shoes into the mud. 

"A lot of good that did me," he said, albeit with less acidity than his usual. 

"What do you plan on doing with Crowley?" asked the old man again.

The redhead gave it a thought, factoring in the facts he knew about Crowley up until this point. And then he had a better question.

"What exactly IS Crowley?"

"An educated guess would be that he is the same as Aziraphale," replied the old man.

"Yes," a red eyebrow cocked again. "But you don't guess."

A faint smile flickered across the aged face. "Do you want to be let in on a secret?" he asked.

"You know me pretty well," said his companion. "I adore secrets."

The two heads leaned in closer to each other as they moved along the slopping muddy path. 


	7. America

"Wisconsin?" said Walter. His opinion of the mid-western state was apparent face he pulled from behind his sunglasses. "Why on earth would you want to go there?" he asked, maneuvering the rental car down the dusty roads. 

From the passenger side of the car, Aziraphale shrugged. "There's a house there where I can stay for a bit. It's quite old now, but really not that bad."

"Yeah, but it's in Wisconsin," Walter pointed out. "Well, suit yourself," he added. "I mean, if you want to give up all of this," he said, gesturing to the nearly desert-like, serene scenery in front of them, "For a bunch of cows and manure, that's your choice."

The pair had landed in Arizona two hours before. Despite the plane ride, Walter felt remarkably energetic and alert. The desert state where Walter had made his home had welcomed him back with an embrace of dry heat that warmed Walter to his bones. 

"Not a trace of humidity," said Walter, happily. "Not a trace of rain. You just can't get weather like this England." 

Aziraphale smiled anemically as he watched Walter snap on the car's radio and barrel down the open road. There was something about Walter that reminded the angel of Crowley. It wasn't so much the man's sunglasses or his enthusiasm in driving at a ridiculously high speed. It was more an essence of Walter. No matter how good a person or how *saintly* a person Walter might be or become, a section of him would always belong to Crowley. As it was with all humans.

_"It's to be expected," said __Crowley__, lazily, finishing off the last of the wine. "I've been making lives miserable up here for awhile now. Everyone's got a bit of the nasty streak in them after me being around 'em." _

"You sure you're alright in that thing?" 

Walter's question broke Aziraphale out of his momentary reverie. He looked up to see Walter glancing meaningfully at the pullover Aziraphale had chosen for the trip. It haphazardly matched the gray wool pants he was wearing, which would have been suitable for a chilly spell in England. Walter, who was dressed more appropriately for the Arizona weather in shorts and a tee-shirt felt himself sweating just looking at Aziraphale. 

"I'm fine," answered Aziraphale, who indeed was not sweating a drop despite the high temperatures. Walter didn't say a word from behind his shades and instead turned off at the next exit. "Where are we going?" inquired Aziraphale.

"Quick stop before my place," said Walter. "Some food, some drinks. And for you, first and foremost, something with short sleeves."

"But—"

"Something with short sleeves," repeated Walter, a bit more loudly. "I can't even look at you without a phantom heat exhaustion." 

Two hours later, Walter stood inside an American mall, sipping an American Big Gulp while attempting to navigate Aziraphale away from all things beige and knitted. Walter himself was not much for fashion. He belonged to that section of men who felt that if it was comfortable, it should be worn, damn the color and damn if it was literally falling to tatters. But even he knew when it was time to draw the line. 

"Here," said Walter, grabbing a handful of solid colored tee-shirts. He gave up waiting for the other man to choose something on his own. "They're comfy and they actually allow for air to circulate. Just get 'em and let's go. What?" he asked, seeing something of a smirk on Aziraphale's face. 

"Nothing," said the blond, neatly folding the shirts Walter had shoved into his hand. "I was just remembering something."

"About Crowley?" guessed Walter, correctly. "Well, if you're grinning while thinking about him, I guess we're on a good track," he said. Roving his glance over to a counter of sunglasses, he selected a pair. "Do you really need these to see?" he asked Aziraphale, pulling off the angel's wire rimmed glasses.

"Err..no, not really," said Aziraphale, avoiding Walter nearly jabbing him in the eye.

"Great, then wear these," he instructed, shoving the black shades onto the angel.

"Walter, I don't think this is really…I mean, I'm not looking to look…"

"Aziraphale," Walter interrupted. "This is not about fashion and taste. I mean, look at me." He gestured to himself. "I'm hardly dressed to kill over here. This is about comfort and surviving Arizona heat. For that, you need breathable clothes and sunglasses."

Aziraphale blinked from behind the still tagged sunglasses, a gesture that was lost to Walter who couldn't see his companion's eyes. But he could see the rest of Aziraphale's face and at the moment, his lips were curling back into a smile. "Thank you," said the angel, gratefully. "You've been really nice to me and I'm…."

"Okay, okay," interrupted Walter, grinning. "You're starting a speech and it's really touching, mate, it is. But you're going to embarrass me and if I wanted humiliation I'd have stayed in London around my dad. So how's about you buy me a drink and we'll call it even for the day, alright?" As Aziraphale nodded, Walter patted him good-naturedly on the back, steering him toward the registers. 

As they made their way toward the counter, they passed a man in a baseball cap, who had earlier spotted them with a certain amount of disgust. 

"Fucking queers."

It was unmistakably uttered loudly enough. Hearing the comment, Walter felt a phantom ache that most humans associated with being the target of old school taunts and cruel jokes. He considered that now as a grown man, he could do the mature thing and turn the other cheek. 

Or, he could not do that and instead launch himself foolishly at the other man, who was twice his size and attempt to get in a few good injuries before getting pummeled. But before he could make up his mind as to which course of action would be less stupid, a singularly stern voice beat him to it.

"Excuse me?" said Aziraphale, turning around to face the capped man. "What did you say?"

The capped man looked mildly surprised at being called on his comment. But he scrutinized Aziraphale who tugged off the tagged sunglasses, and smirked. "You heard me just fine," he growled. "I said queer. You and your little boyfriend there."

"You are not being very polite," said Aziraphale, coldly. "I suggest you apologize."

Walter looked over at Aziraphale, incredulously. Was he serious? He was actually asking for an apology? But when he looked over at the usually mild-mannered bookshop owner, a distinct chill ran down his spine. It was not so much Aziraphale's appearance was different. He was still wore his mismatching outfit and probably should have not looked very intimidating, holding some tee-shirts and sunglasses.

And yet he did.

A frightening fire burned in Aziraphale's normally sedate blue eyes and Walter for some reason could very easily picture the bookshop owner striking the capped insulter down as if he were nothing more than an insect. Involuntarily, he took a tentative step back. 

"Apologize," ordered Aziraphale, his voice sounding oddly….grandiose to Walter, as if its tone could bring all of heaven raining down on the insulter at any given moment.

The capped man was obviously agreeing with Walter's last few points. His earlier smugness had been replaced by a cold fear that latched so firmly onto his heart, he feared he'd never feel safe again. "I…I…"

Aziraphale raised a deadly eyebrow. "It would be wise for you not to keep us waiting," he advised, frostily. 

"Sorry," the capped man finally blurted out. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry," he babbled. He couldn't seem to get enough apologetic words out fast enough. 

Aziraphale held him in his icy gaze a minute longer. The terrorizing effect it was having on the man was intense enough that Walter began to worry the man might faint soon. But finally, the bookshop owner nodded and something faded from his eyes. 

"Apology accepted," he said, curtly. He didn't bother to watch as the man scurried off. 

Aware that now everyone in the store was staring at them, Walter smiled weakly, wondering if the gesture would dispense any of the shocked expressions around them. He tugged at Aziraphale's sleeve, directing the now tranquil man toward a petrified cashier.

"Bloody hell, Aziraphale," he muttered as they walked. "Remind me never to get you angry at me."


	8. Return

Okay, next bit. Sorry this took forever.

*****************

"Right…that over there." Narrowing his vision, Lucifer gestured vaguely from his throne. "Or…perhaps there, actually. Yes, there." He glanced down at the one part he had personally extracted to keep near his side. "Nervous?" he asked.

From his position on Lucifer's right armrest, Crowley watched the scurrying minions. Nervous? No, that would be the wrong word. He was more on the whole, depressed. 

"We do have all the pieces," assured the Lord of Hell. "Although I'd rethink about putting that left wing back. It's a bit useless."

Crowley turned his vision as much as it would go to see the detached wing Lucifer spoke about. It was the wing that Lynch had broken. He had never been able to fix it properly as he had thought it wouldn't matter. 

"I'd like it back," he said, dully.

"Right, then," said Lucifer and gestured the moving demons along. "A bit like jigsaw, this," he commented. "Good thing I didn't blast everything apart else it'd take forever."

The experience of being broken apart by his Lord had been an experience Crowley knew he would unfortunately not forget for a very long time. But being able to watch his body slowly be put back together offered a whole new category of disturbing. It was also much more painful than the demon would have reckoned. With each twist, each push and pull, Crowley felt a searing pain that was like a phantom to the process of going to pieces. 

"On the left," instructed Lucifer before he turned his attention back to Crowley's head. "You've been giving me a lot of trouble of late, Crowley." The Morningstar's tone was so conversational, Crowley felt an automatic chill of fear run down his spine, which was currently being carried over to be aligned with his torso. "The Apocalypse was a bloody embarrassment, not to mention that whole business with Hastur and Ligur. And I had certain plans for Lynch, but then you turned him into a puddle as well."

Even without being able to crane his vision up to see Lucifer's face, Crowley knew what was there: a burning fury in his Lord's eyes. The promise of a finely constructed torture. He had hardly been pleased to learn he was coming out the Dump. He knew he was in for something worse, if that were possible. 

"Lynch was in my territory," said Crowley. 

"Demons, Crowley. Invading territories is the lifestyle," said Lucifer, acerbically. "Over there…left arm." He sat on his throne, not speaking for awhile as he watched Crowley's body being slowly put back together. "Pity you'll never be as good as new," he commented, lightly. "You used to be quite agile back in your early days. But then," he continued. "In your early days, you weren't so keen on associating with the Enemy."

Crowley had long lost the immediate fear that struck him whenever anyone in Hell danced around the issue of Aziraphale. He had been afraid at first. Afraid of punishment, afraid of the kind of wrath that would come down upon him, courtesy of Lucifer. But he had already gone through all of that. He had been punished, or was being punished with all the muster Hell had. And it seemed it did not equal the punishment he was getting from Aziraphale. 

_"We're even now."_

_"Yes, I suppose we are."_

The look in the normally serene blue eyes was forever branded in the demon's mind. The finality in it and the severing of their ties forever. The distrust and…blame the angel's eyes screamed at him. He knew he deserved it and yet…it didn't make things easier. It didn't make the loneliness easier or more bearable. If only it were possible to alter things…and yet, Crowley could not think of a way things could have gone differently. Was it possible to have avoided Lynch? To have prevented him from doing what he did?

_If it wasn't Lynch, it would have been another,_ thought Crowley. Perhaps even an agent of heaven. That was the thing about the pair of them. They couldn't have existed as a pair in eyes of either heaven or hell. Only earth, the most backwards, contrary place ever to exist.

"You've become quite redundant in your old job, Crowley," said Lucifer, breaking the demon's silent musings. Crowley glanced up and saw that his body was now whole again…or at least as whole as it was going to get. His vision shifted dramatically as Lucifer picked up the severed head and arranged it so that he was looking at the demon eye to eye. "Souls have been coming down to me in droves. More twisted, sinning little blighters than you can shake a stick at," he said, grinning. "You're not needed."

Crowley stared at the Morningstar's exposed, sharp teeth. "So…"

"So, it's time for a new job."

+++++++++++++++++++

Gingerly, Aziraphale blew on the cup of steaming tea he nestled in his hands. Around him, various patrons of Starbucks drank mocha blasts and chai frappaccinos, politely ignoring the one crazy man who took a sip of his hot liquid, despite the 90 degree weather. 

The angel glanced up to watch Walter, who was making use of the coffee shop's pay phone. He had told Aziraphale he needed to make sure whoever was house sitting for him had managed to keep the one bedroom palace still standing. Walter had said it with a friendly smile, but Aziraphale had been able to see apprehension underneath the gesture.

Walter was afraid. 

More importantly, Walter was afraid of him.

The angel couldn't really blame Walter after what happened in the mall an hour ago. The event had been enough to disturb him as well. Aziraphale told himself he really wouldn't have struck down the man for what he had said. He really had only been looking for an apology. Had one not followed, he would have left him alone.

Probably.

Most likely.

But it was still probably a good thing he did apologize. 

Aziraphale took a sip of the tea and bit back his grimace. He didn't know exactly why, but tea in America tasted nothing like tea in England. In fact, it was so far removed from the tea he was used to, he wondered if it even rightly fell in the definition of "tea," no matter how broad that definition went. 

Still, the heat of it was a little soothing.

No, he wouldn't have struck down the man. Even had he not apologized.

_"Y'know, there are worse things than smiting someone, angel."_

"I wouldn't have done any of those either," Aziraphale muttered to himself. Abruptly, he shook his head as if to clear it. No, he had to stop this. He had to stop having imaginary conversations with Crowley. That was what got him in trouble in the first place. He had been all set to let the comment slide when a small voice in his head, that sounded too much like the demon had told spoken to him. 

_"You going to let that bastard say that? Push you around like those yobs who were always after your shop?"_

And he had let it get to him. Aziraphale shook his head again and took another drink of his pseudo-tea. He had been in America now for six hours. Starting hour seven, Crowley and anything related to the demon. 

_I can't let it continue inside of me. I need to let it…him go and—_

The angel's thoughts stopped and suddenly the warmth he had gained from the hot liquid was now replaced with a familiar, cold churning of his insides. 

"Oi, Aziraphale," said Walter, returning to his seat. "You alright?" he asked, seeing the look on his companion's face.

Aziraphale blinked once, relaxing his hand that had clenched the paper cup his tea had come in to an almost breaking point. 

"Yes," he replied, calmly. Lifting his cup, he drained the rest of his tea.

++++++++++++++++

While Aziraphale was first sitting down with his tea, just as Walter was lifting up the handle of the payphone, a man in London's SoHo was preparing the cross the street. A black hansom cab rushed, taking no notice to slow down as it drove through the puddle on the curb. The man bit back the string of obscenities that came to mind as he felt his drenched trousers stick to his legs. 

Grimacing as he walked across, he paused by the door of a rather cheerful looking computer shop to inspect the damage. Studying his trousers, he failed to notice the smoke rising from the pavement just behind him. Nor did he notice the large hole that suddenly gaped open, exposing all the fire and brimstone of a very B-movie hell. He didn't note any of these things and would have missed the thin figure that was spat out from the hole just before it closed up had he not turned around and nearly tripped over the sprawled man.

_Dear lord, __London__ is positively overflowing with the homeless these days, thought the man as he stepped around the fallen man. _

From his position on the wet, concrete floor, Crowley gasped a breath and coughed once. "Fuck that hurt!"


	9. Vacancy

Hello, here's the next bit. 

Many have asked if this story is slash. It's really difficult for me to say. The relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley has always been a bit complicated for me. I don't really see them as strictly male characters since they are ethereal beings. I see their closeness as something born of the fact that they have evolved into creatures unlike any others. The slightly un-angelic angel and the not so demonic demon. Really, in that sense, Aziraphale and Crowley are alone in this universe except for each other. 

This doesn't make me think that there's an automatic sexual desire between the two. But there is a strong bond that has formed that perhaps, in the words of Aziraphale, is ineffable. 

But, some more of that will be touched on later. For now, on the w/the show:

**********************

A light drizzle had settled over London, along with an unseasonable humidity that caused a case of bad hair for every inhabitant of the city. Amongst the hurrying crowd of SoHo, a lone black-clad figure made his way through. His hunched shoulders bumped and collided every other few steps with various pedestrians, who mostly ignored such contact out of habit. 

Crowley jerked his head to one side as he continued to walk, flicking damp dark strands away from his eyes. He could feel the moisture cling to his normally perfectly sculpted hair, causing it to stick out at various angles. He supposed he could fix all that with a simple gesture. And he could just magic all these pedestrians out of his way. But he felt he had good reason not to.

With each jostle of an arm hitting his and with each tickle of his hair brushing his face, Crowley become more convinced that this was not a dream. He was back on Earth. He was awake and he was back. The demon drank up the reality like a man dying of thirst. 

He let his body crash rather forcefully with an elderly woman who was passing by him with her shopping bag. The surprise of the collision caused her to drop the canvas tote and oranges scattered themselves on London's gray sidewalks. Crowley noted the sharp feel of her umbrella on his ribs as she smacked him hard and called him a "bloody blind fool." He walked on, ignoring her furious diatribe while absently ordering the rolling oranges to congregate off to one side to avoid getting trampled on. 

He was back. This was not a dream.

++++++++++++++

An hour later, Crowley was reassessing his previous statement as he stared at where Aziraphale's bookshop used to be. Instead of the dour, moldy looking establishment, there now stood an unbearably bright and cheerful computer store that boasted an equally bright sign that read: "Computer Corner!" In the drab London weather, the store seemed to have its own sunlight pouring out of its windows, courtesy of its corporate management. Had it not been standing exactly where Aziraphale's shop should have been, Crowley might have actually taken a liking to it.

Upon entering the store, a worker clad in bright blue shirt bounded up to him, his smile brightly reflecting the bright lights. Some people might have raised a questioning eyebrow at the sight of Crowley. His suit looked as if he had used it as his pajamas for the past month while using the gutters as his bed of choice. His pale face was partially hidden by a pair of chipped sunglasses, badly in need of replacing and scattered hair, badly in need of a comb. But any propensity the worker might have had toward curiosity had been beaten out of him during his Computer Corner! Training Sessions.

"Good day, sir. How may I help you?" inquired the Computer Corner! worker. 

Crowley looked over at the far wall where Aziraphale used to have a bookshelf that housed many of his books post-1700. Or at least, he had until Crowley had thrown Lynch into the shelves, bringing most of them down. Now by the far wall was a table that sported several rows of sleek laptops, poised for action. 

"Didn't a bookshop used to be here?" asked Crowley. He realized how hoarse his voice sounded from lack of use. 

"Bookshop?" asked the worker, blankly.

"Yes, as in a shop that sells books."

"Books."

"Yes," said Crowley, getting irritated. "Those things with paper and words on them? Comes in all sizes?" The demon blinked in surprise when the worker merely laughed at the comment. The glazed look reminded Crowley of those who had lost their souls. 

"Hello, can I help?" inquired a new voice. Despite being different in terms of size and gender to the first worker, this Computer Corner! worker's cheerfully blank face made her fairly identical to the first. 

"This gentleman wanted to know if we used to be a bookshop," supplied the first worker. 

"Bookshop?" asked the second worker, blankly.

"Yes, as in…it was called Mainly Books," said Crowley, hastily before he repeated a conversation. "Old place. Looked very easily flammable. Usually had bad odors coming from it. Owned by…." Crowley searched his mind for a good description of Aziraphale. "Uh…blond man. Tallish…in need of exercise. Usually wore jumpers the color of oat bran and sometimes had on glasses. Not that he needed them," Crowley said after a thought. "He owned the bookshop here…right here…" The demon cast an eye around the well-lit store and looked for the dusty counters and shelves that were all absent. Like their owner.

Crowley's voice trailed off as he thought on what Aziraphale's disappearance meant. If he really wanted to, he could just concentrate and see if he could sense out the angel's location. But would Aziraphale want to be found? And if he did find his counterpart, what would he say to him? 

_Or rather, what would he say to me?_

The thought of what the angel might have to say to him frankly unnerved Crowley a little. 

But what was he to do if not find Aziraphale? He had started out wandering throughout London upon his return, but almost automatically he had directed himself to come to the angel's bookshop. Why had he done that? To talk to Aziraphale? He hadn't really had a plan. He just wanted…to be near. To not be alone. But that's exactly what he was right now. 

Crowley realized one of the Computer Corner! twins was talking to him. The demon tried to tune out the chattering voice and realized he couldn't do it. Words about their "latest laptop model" and "would he like to see a demonstration?" bounced inside the demon's head with a piercing resonance. 

"The G9 model's screen provides an excellent clarity in picture when surfing the internet. All our computers are hooked up so if you'd like to test it out—"

"No," Crowley cut in. He pushed past the workers who maintained the frozen smiles on their faces. As he passed by the various computer monitors that were switched on for display, the demon paused and looked at the bland web pages. He felt an old twitch in his hands as an idea formulated in his mind. It really wasn't his job anymore, but….

As Crowley exited the computer store, all computer and laptop screens simultaneously flickered before displaying 50 identical images of a man in leather chaps and a woman sporting only a leather whip and nothing else. 

"Oh, ja! Ja! Das ist gut, mein Mann! Ja! Ja! Ja!" 

Several blue-shirted workers rushed to the computers, attempting to terminate the connection the computers had to the German porn site. Strangely, it could not be done. The smiles remained, albeit having now a more desperate, pained shade as customers looked on.

"Ja! Ja! Ich bin Ihr Sklave!!"


	10. Destination

Okay, here we go. We're wrapping it up now!

The following will mention Loki and Bartleby from Kevin Smith's Dogma. Obviously, they belong to Mr. Smith, not me. For those who haven't seen the movie, they are two fallen angels who were banished to Wisconsin by God. 

**************

"Are you sure you'll be all set?" asked Walter. There was a slightly concerned expression on Walter's face, which was honest. And there was an underlying fear that the man was doing his best to hide, which was also honest. 

Aziraphale smiled inwardly at Walter's good-natured attempt to try and at least offer a prolonged stay at his place. But the angel could see the worry underneath Walter's friendly demeanor as clear as day. Ever since that day at the clothing shop, Walter had been afraid of him. It wasn't the kind of panic-inducing fear that would send men running for the hills. But it was still fear that kept Walter constantly wary of the other man, despite his efforts not to be. 

"I'll be fine, Walter," replied Aziraphale. He settled himself in one of the airport's plastic chairs, waiting for his flight to be called. Around him, there were a few other passengers, milling around, looking equally bored and lethargic by the heat and the prospect of their future destination: Wisconsin.

"So, this property you own," said Walter, settling into a seat next to him. "You going to move into it?" 

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale answered, honestly. It had been the angel's plan to go back to the old home that had once housed Loki and Bartleby….it had somehow seemed right when the idea came into his head all those days ago at the pub when Walter had first suggested a trip to America. But now that HE was back on earth, it seemed even more right. 

Despite the prison-like quality of the two fallen angels' last dwelling, there was something about the home that now tugged at Aziraphale like a persistent, nagging child or an old friend. The kind of friend you could try a lifetime to forget, but you never did. You might not like them very much anymore, but there was no denying they knew you. Really knew you. And that kind of understanding linked you to them forever. 

And on certain days, you craved such understanding to the point where you thought you'd go mad. 

"No offense, Aziraphale, but I'd go mad if I had to live in Wisconsin," remarked Walter. "There's nothing there."

"No, there's definitely something there," Aziraphale argued, lightly. 

Above them, a voice penetrated through the loudspeaker, sounding somewhat desolate as it announced the boarding call for Flight 206. Aziraphale rose to his feet, taking in hand his one small bag containing a few articles of clothing. 

"Guess this is it, then," said Walter, getting up. A flash of worry passed by the man's eyes. Despite the small amount of relief he felt at Aziraphale's departure, he nonetheless felt a sudden absence at the pending parting, as if the sun he had been basking in for several days was now going to disappear behind clouds forever. 

He grasped the hand that Aziraphale extended and shook it, doing his best to just smile casually. 

"Thank you for everything you've done, Walter," said Aziraphale. The angel's blue eyes kindly studied Walter, for a moment recalling in a sudden flash everything that Walter was….and all he had the potential to be. "It…it just seems unfinished somehow that I just leave you, though," he said, a bit awkwardly. "Is there….err…anything you want?" he asked.

"Well, what does any man want?" Walter replied, waving away the offer. "Some direction to go in life, a good woman, happiness," he listed. "But I'll settle for a good friend." 

Aziraphale smiled. "You already have that."

++++++++++++++++

As Aziraphale traveled over the clouds in an overly air-conditioned airplane, Crowley was working on getting drunk.

It wasn't very difficult for the demon as he had convinced the bartender that it would be in everyone's best interest if he kept refilling the demon's glass without asking any of those pesky questions like "Don't you think you've had enough?" and "How will you be paying for this lot?" 

By the time a new figure walked in through the darkened pub's doors, Crowley was idly working on his sixth attempt to make a small pyramid out of all the shot glasses in front of him and was watching with mild disgruntlement as the half-finished trapezoid-like structure fell with a loud clatter. 

"Oh, now THIS is a pretty sight," commented the new arrival, standing next to Crowley's barstool. 

The demon blinked confusedly through his dusty sunglasses as he studied the disdainful expression on the tall man's face. After a few seconds of drunken staring, a smirk tugged on Crowley's lips. 

"Metatron…is that you?" he asked, squinting. "It is!" he concluded. "I didn't think you did downtown trips anymore. Disastrous outfit, by the way," he added, noting the dark jacket and velveteen hoodie before going back to his newly filled glasses of alcohol. 

The Metatron, who had long come to understand the atrociousness of Aziraphale's wardrobe choices and Crowley's long exposure to them, felt a bit irked that the demon felt the need to insult what he felt was a perfectly normal set of clothes.

"Nice to see you too, Crowley," replied the Seraphim, dryly. Without an invitation, he sat down on the stool next to the demon's. 

"What'll you have?" asked the bartender as he refilled the last two glasses that Crowley had just finished. 

The Metatron thought for a moment before replying. "A shot of tequila, please…and an empty glass," he added, dejectedly. 

Beside him, Crowley chuckled. "I can't believe you actually still abide by that." 

"Some of us still follow the rules," snapped the Metatron, although he looked somewhat forlorn as he watched the demon down his drink and swallow. 

"So, what brings you by?" asked Crowley. "Social call? Or are you here to try and smite me? Coz if it's the latter, I'll need at least n'hour or so to sober m'self up a little," said the demon as his next drink took effect.

Glaring at the slouching figure, the Seraphim shook his head. "You know it's really amazing," he began. "You get saved from nonexistence, get released from hell to come back to your favorite place that you went against Lucifer to save, thank you," he said as the bartender put down the tequila and empty glass. "And what do you do the minute you get back here? You decide to get pissed in a pub." 

"Hey, at least I can get pissed," said Crowley, watching as the Metatron took a sip of the tequila before spitting it out in the empty glass. "You going to be doing that all night? It's a bit revolting to watch." 

"Too bloody bad." The Metatron took another sip and spat. "Awful tequila, this, anyway." Crowley took another drink and made no comment. "So," questioned the Metatron. "How're you feeling? Being put back together and all?" 

"Is that why you can all the way down here?" scoffed Crowley, though even to his own ears it sounded more like a warble. "To inquire about my health?" 

"Standard practice," said the Metatron. "New evil comes to earth, we like to keep tabs."

"First of all," said Crowley. "First of all…." He attempted to straighten his thoughts. "First of all, I'm not a new evil. I'm rather old, thanks very much. And third of all…"

"You skipped second," the Metatron interjected. 

"Whatever," waved Crowley. "Anyway…thir…sec…whatever of all, since when did you make calls down here? Thought you were all about staying upstairs and being the voicebox for His Lord and Master and….things."

"Expecting someone else were you?" asked the Metatron, raising an eyebrow.

Crowley didn't respond to that, but it became obvious to the Seraphim that the room had gotten a shade darker. Not so much that any human would notice, but enough that he could. The sounds of breaking glass suddenly broke through the noisy atmosphere of the pub as two bottles of very expensive gin that had been on display shattered, spraying its contents all over the till. Various patrons blinked in surprise while the bartender swore in confusion and went to locate a towel to mop up the liquor. Only the angel and the demon did not glance in the direction of the dribbling alcohol. 

"Did I hit a nerve?" asked the Metatron, innocently.

"You know, Metatron," said Crowley, slowly. He took a contemplative sip of his drink. "You've become a bit of a bastard."

"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you," the Seraphim replied. 

"Great," said Crowley, dispassionately. "Now fuck off and leave me alone."

The Metatron watched the bartender open his till and with barely controlled anger take out his drenched money and looked for a place to put it to dry. "I'd gladly do so, don't get me wrong," he said. "But I've got my own job to do, so on your feet."

"What?"

"I've got orders. Now get up and let's be off," ordered the Seraphim, briskly.

Crowley didn't move, which didn't surprise the Metatron. He was all set to give the order again and possibly use brute force when to his surprise, the demon slowly eased himself off his seat. Using the bar as a means of keeping his balance, Crowley winced as he sobered himself a little, enough so that he could see straight. When the process was over, he stood a little straighter and pushed his shades more firmly onto his nose and faced the Metatron. 

"Okay, let's go," announced Crowley.

_Well, sweet Jesus. He's actually going to follow me and not even ask where we're going_, the Metatron realized. 

"Right, then," said the angel. "Uh…this way. Out the pub."

Crowley nodded, looking for all the world, completely uncaring if sudden death awaited him outside the pub. He began to follow the angel when he stopped. "Hang on a minute," he said. Reaching over the counter, the demon snagged a bottle of whiskey, still half-full. The bartender didn't seem to notice as he laid out another sad, drenched bill from the gin-soaked till. Holding firmly onto the bottle with one hand, Crowley made a simple gesture with the other hand over his shoulder as he walked.

"I'm ready," he said, stalking past the Metatron on slightly unsteady feet. 

The Seraphim glanced behind him in time to see the bartender pull out several more bills, frowning. These ones seemed to be dry as a bone. And for that matter, so were the ones he had laid out to dry. Even the till seemed less wet than before. Staring at the sight for a beat, the Metatron stood still. 

_Did he really just…?_

The angel raised an amused eyebrow, his expression suggesting the demeanor of a man who was just beginning to understand the punchline to mildly funny joke he had missed before. Turning, he hurried to catch up to the demon before Crowley reached the door. 

Crowley was taking a swig straight from the bottle as he followed the Metatron back out into London's cold streets. "Okay, let's get started," the demon announced, tiredly.

"As you wish," replied the Metatron and snapped his fingers. 

Speed was never something that took Crowley by surprise. In his days, he had traveled faster than the speed of sound and had once come really close to beating a light beam's journey from a lamp at one end of a room to the other. But he was rarely intoxicated during these moments of quick distance traveling. He certainly was never intoxicated during a transportation. 

So doing one now, when he also hadn't been expecting it, startled the demon straight off his feet. Landing heavily on what felt like moist grass, the demon swore violently. Next to him, the Metatron looked down at him, bemused. 

"Lucky you missed that pile over there," commented the angel, gesturing toward a dark pile that was currently covered in flies. 

Crowley looked around, dazed, still holding his bottle. All around him were fields of grass and the scent of farmland. His eyes fell on a few cows still grazing as the sun was setting. "What the….? Oh, Jesus Mary, Joesph, and all Saints," blessed Crowley. He glared up at the Metatron. "Did you really have to bring me HERE to finish me off?" he demanded. 

"Finish you off? Don't flatter yourself," retorted the Metatron. "I'm merely here to push you on your way." He waved a hand toward something behind Crowley. 

The demon twisted around from where he sat and saw the familiar outline of an old abandoned house. 

The Metatron watched Crowley stare at the house that had once housed two fallen angels. He waited for a reaction and felt a confused tug of annoyance when the demon began to laugh, of all things. "What?" he demanded. 

"I can't depend on you lot for anything, can I?" laughed Crowley. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"All you had to do was finish me off!" retorted Crowley, pushing himself waveringly onto his feet. "End it. Put me back where I was supposed to be before that meddling angel asked your God for a favor. Can't even count on your all to even get rid of a little evil in this place…" muttered the demon, wretchedly. 

The Metatron watched the swaying figure and for once the look of utter scorn melted a little. "If by 'meddling angel' you mean Aziraphale," he said, neutrally. "You can have the pleasure of telling him off yourself." Crowley looked at him, confused. "His plane should be arriving in about two hours. He should reach the house in about three."

"He's…he's here?" asked Crowley, hoarsely. "On earth? But…his place was gone. I thought he'd gone back up…"

"Oh, he did," answered the Metatron, flippantly. "And he was doing a fantastic job of scaring the feathers off of scores of angels, thanks to your wonderful influence over the past few millennia." 

"He…what? Then…has he?"

"No," replied the angel, seeing the slight panicked look on the demon's face. He could actually believe it was sincere. "He hasn't fallen. But he couldn't stay with us."

"Why not?" asked Crowley, staggering a little as a cow in the distance suddenly mooed. 

"I suppose for the same reason why you couldn't stay where you were," guessed the Metatron. He had gotten a few details from the Lord. But as it always was with Lord, the details were scant. "Doesn't matter really." 

"Does this have to do with what Lucifer told me before sending me back up here?" asked Crowley.

"How would I know? I don't talk to his Royal Darkness on a regular basis," said the Metatron, dryly. "I'm just your average messenger of God. And the message is, stop being so bloody pathetic and go wait in the house."

"For what?"

"Are you dense? I just told you, your counterpart," said the Metatron. "Good lord, it's a wonder why we haven't won this war if you're Hell's main operative up here."

Crowley stared at the house, whose outline was fading away as the sun began to set. Soon it would be barely visible to the human eye in the darkness. Luckily, Crowley could see in the dark. The last words the Prince of All Darkness had spoken to him, just before he sent him back up rang clearly in the demon's mind as he stared at the house. 

His new job.

That had been a joke. There was no new job. 

No, his new "purpose" was to be nothing at all. To just go back upstairs and do as he pleased. It really should have been a dream job or situation for anyone. Any demon longed to hear he could do whatever his evil heart desired. 

But it had been a punishment as bad as the Pit for Crowley. His heart did not desire anything. Or perhaps it did. It desired. But what it wanted or what it needed was something the demon could not pinpoint. Maybe it was to see Aziraphale. To have that friendship or whatever that had been again. But that was beyond a lost cause. He just knew not having it was like a crushing, suffocating loneliness that made his once encounter with breathing Holy Water less painful. 

And now he could lonely in fucking Wisconsin. 


	11. Sympathy

Okay, the second to last chapter. After this will just be an epilogue.  
  
I'm not saying that Crowley and Aziraphale would EVER break out in apower ballad or anything, but this one song has been stuck in my headfor awhile so thus I was listening to it pretty much all day while Iwrote this chapter and the lyrics are kind of appropriate.  
  
Disclaimer: I'm not a Goo Goo Dolls fan by any stretch. They'vealways been a band that's just been kind of…there. Don't love `em.Don't hate `em. But I thank them for this song as it kept me companyas I wrote this. The snippets of lyrics belong to them…err…JohnnyReznik.  
********************  
  
_"Stranger than your sympathy__  
I take these things so I don't feel  
I'm killing myself from the inside out  
Now my head's been filled with doubt  
  
Stranger than your sympathy  
All these thoughts you stole from me  
I'm not sure where I belong  
Nowhere's home and I'm all wrong"  
_  
--The Goo Goo Dolls  
  
  
The sun had set and soon stars were winking silently in the darkened skies. Unseasonably, there was a slight chill in the air and faint breezes periodically shifted Aziraphale's ragged coat as he stood a few feet away from the chain metal fence of an old, dilapidated house. He'd told himself about six times now in the last two hours to  
start walking, but had remained where he was.  
  
The churning sensation that he had felt while sitting in the coffee shop in Phoenix, the feeling that had told him without a doubt that Crowley had returned was now magnified as he stood in front of the house.  
  
How did Crowley know to come here?  
  
A frighteningly large portion of Aziraphale wanted to run into the house and confirm wit this own eyes that Crowley had indeed returned. But the desire was countered or at least delayed by the images he had once been shown by another demon. The demon Lynch. And not simply shown, but imprinted, expressed upon. And while he might not be the only one responsible, the pain and agony that reverberated throughout this planet…it was the main objective of Crowley's. Of Crowley's kind. Of demons.  
  
Pain, anguish, agony…evil. Crowley belonged to that sect.  
  
Evil.  
  
The hand Aziraphale had wrapped around the handle to his small bag clenched, digging the plastic strap into his palm. So wasn't it wrong that for the first time in months that it was here, not even in Heaven, but here that everything felt.....right. Perhaps that wasn't the word as the angel was fairly sure that there was nothing right about how much he wanted to see Crowley. But unlike the hazy, surreal sensation he felt even while surrounded by his fellow angels in Paradise, this felt solid. Real. Reality.  
  
Raising his free hand, Aziraphale stared at it, as if reading his palm lines. Still inside this heaven given body, he felt the swirls of his angelic powers. He had not fallen…and he did not think he would. What had the Metatron said? Interacting with humans definitely changed an angel.  
  
_I wonder what interacting with a demon does?_ wondered Aziraphale.  
  
He lowered his hand and stared back at the dark house. No, he had not fallen. Nothing about how he felt or regarded Paradise had changed. He did not doubt the Lord. Nor would he ever. His faith in the Lord was eternal and everlasting.  
  
But perhaps he doubted himself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Upon entering the house hours ago, Crowley had found that the passing of several months had not changed the layout of the house Bartleby and Loki had made their home. The mustard yellow and brown motif was still in effect. As were the piles of outdated TV Guides on the coffee table. The demon vaguely recalled thinking he could not envision a more depressing looking residence.  
  
And after spending some time in the Dump, he still whole-heartedly agreed.  
  
Crowley busied himself with getting drunk again after refilling his bottle and laid on the couch and gestured the TV on. He tugged off his scratched sunglasses and held them between two fingers as he commanded them to melt away. Random images swirled in front of the demon and after a few minutes found himself staring at the home shopping channel. It seemed like a lifetime ago he had been sitting in his own flat, watching this channel, too apathetic to do much. It had all been pre-Lynch, pre-Dump.  
  
Waving the TV off, Crowley stared up the darkened ceiling as shadows swirled in front of his alcohol-addled eyes. He closed his eyes for what he felt was a moment. But it must have been longer since when he opened them again, he was aware of a pair of blue eyes staring down at him. Crowley blinked. The vision remained.  
  
_I…I'm dreaming again,_ guessed Crowley.  
  
But he could feel his head still spinning slightly from the whiskey and his body had that floating sensation it got when he was severely smashed. No, he was definitely still awake. Which meant….  
  
"Hello, Crowley."  
  
The demon rifled through his mind of witty replies to answer Aziraphale.  
  
"Uhh…hi," he half-slurred. Suddenly, a chuckle escaped the demon's lips as he stared up at the angel. Somehow he had been expecting this reunion to be more….monumental. Instead, he was lying flat drunk on a couch in Wisconsin unable to come up with a single intelligent thing to say. The frown that crossed Aziraphale's pale face, however, quickly made the laughter die out.  
  
Crowley was then rather aware that whatever the angel had to say to him, it was probably not going to be very pleasant or friendly.  
  
"Nice to see you again," said the demon, amazed at how casual his voice could sound.  
  
"Crowley, have you been drinking?" asked Aziraphale with quiet reserve.  
  
"Am drinking," Crowley corrected. He let his hand fall back down past the lip of the couch and grab the half-empty bottle of alcohol. The minute his fingers closed around the neck of the bottle, it was full again. Blearily, he looked up from his sprawled position on deceptively comfortable couch. If figured if he drank enough then the look of disapproval and disdain Aziraphale was giving him would matter less.  
  
Surprisingly, the angel looked more passive as he stared down at him. Crowley couldn't tell if that was any better.  
  
"I've missed you, Crowley," said Aziraphale. There was honesty in the voice, but it was more than covered over by the self-conflict the angel felt while uttering his words.  
  
And the demon realized it was the truth. The angel did miss him...and hated himself for doing so. Seeing it so clearly with his own eyes, Crowley felt something crack and explode inside of him, reminding him of what it had felt like the first time he had been broken into pieces to be scattered in the Dump. The demon sobered himself a little and shivered slightly as the whiskey left his system.  
  
"Yeah…I missed you too," he replied, hoarsely. Feeling a shade more balanced, Crowley pushed himself up with one hand and fumbled for some leverage from the mustard colored pillows wedged into the back of the couch. Steadying himself, he pushed the hair out of his face and looked up at Aziraphale, who still stood over him. The angel's  
blue eyes glowed slightly in the dim lights of the house.  
  
"I'm going to go," he said, half to the face of Jennifer Aniston staring up at him from a TV Guide on the coffee table.  
  
"To another pub?" asked Aziraphale, sounding expressionless again. The tone or lack of it made Crowley wince.  
  
"No…I don't know," he answered. If he had any energy he'd have cursed the Metatron for sending him here. But as it was, it didn't even seem worth it.  
  
"Where are you going, then?" asked Aziraphale. The angel knew where ever Crowley went on earth, he'd be able to find him eventually if he concentrated enough.  
  
"I don't know," repeated Crowley, staring at the spread of guides on the table. Briefly, a church came into his mind. The last church where he had gone to where a rather threatened priest had agreed to bless his pen that had later gone into Lynch's eye. Perhaps the priest would still be there and be as obliging. The demon's thoughts were interrupted when Aziraphale came into his line of view as the angel sat on the edge of the coffee table.  
  
"Why do you want to go to a church?" asked Aziraphale.  
  
"Since when can you read my thoughts?" asked Crowley, surprised.  
  
"I didn't. You just muttered `church,' "said the angel, dryly.  
  
"Oh….right."  
  
"Tell me first why you're going to a church," asked Aziraphale, sounding for all the world, disinterested in his own question.  
  
A flush of anger cracked Crowley's depression at the angel's dispassionate tone. "I don't have to answer anything. The last thing I need is for you to mess about in my affairs like last time," he snapped.  
  
Suddenly, Aziraphale looked less disinterested.  
  
"Crowley…you're not going to do anything….?"  
  
"What? Rash? Like take a terminal holy water bath?" supplied Crowley. He had meant to be kidding when he said that. But now that he said it, it sounded less like a joke. When he had thought the Metatron was about to send him to non-existence, he hadn't really struggled. It had seemed almost natural that he go back to where ever he had been after breathing in that Holy Water the first time. Natural and perhaps preferred.  
  
Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking. Crowley made a mental note that he might want to sober himself a little more before making his final decision. Contradicting his own note, the demon grasped the bottle of whiskey and took a long swig.  
  
Aziraphale sat, silently observing Crowley tiredly rub one of his exposed eyes. The demon looked the same…more or less physically. But upon closer inspection, the angel could see the world of difference within the demon. The body that Crowley was using was familiar and yet there was something in the way the demon sat, the way he even held the bottle that suggested there was something inherently damaged about him. Like broken bones that never mended fully. It was then Aziraphale recalled that Lynch had broken one of Crowley's wings.  
  
And what else had happened to Crowley during the time they were separated? Aziraphale knew he could find Crowley anywhere on earth, but in Hell, he would have no idea. In Hell or if Crowley should choose to….  
  
The angel snapped out of thoughts as Crowley pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. A wave of sudden fear hit Aziraphale and all his previous thoughts of taking things carefully with the demon fled his mind as the solid reality that came with finding Crowley was threatening to leave him.  
  
"Crowley, stop," he ordered, quickly. He rose to his feet and unthinkingly grabbed onto a black sleeve, causing the demon to drop the half-filled bottle onto the carpeted floor.  
  
"I said don't mess about with my affairs," said Crowley, angrily. "I know you don't get it," he added, attempting to pull his arm away.  
  
Aziraphale tightened his hold. "Crowley—"  
  
"Look, I'm sure your angelic…angelic niceness is telling you to do something about this, but just ignore it for once and do your job," Crowley snapped. "I'm the evil one. The adversary. YOUR adversary. You're supposed to get rid of me so I'll make this one easier on you. Just stop trying to do the nice thing and let me dissolve off like I should have before!" He yanked hard on his own arm, which came away easily as Aziraphale's grip had loosened considerably. The force of his own momentum sent the demon spilling backwards on to the couch again, sprawled as he was before.  
  
Crowley lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The humiliation of his very poorly executed exit kicking what was left of his ego.  
  
*I can't even bloody off it elegantly.*  
  
His view of the ceiling was obstructed as Aziraphale stepped closer to the couch and looked down at him.  
  
  
  
"Do you think you can sit up?" asked Aziraphale, calmly.  
  
Crowley shrugged and found that movement to be a greater challenge than anticipated. "Rather not," he muttered.  
  
"Sober yourself and try."  
  
Crowley sighed and ordered some of the alcohol to leave his system. Once his head felt more secure, he crawled up to a sitting position against the cushions.  
  
"There," announced the demon, resigned. "I'm sitting up."  
  
Aziraphale nodded, crouching down to be more at an equal level with the demon. "Good," he stated. With that, the angel leaned forward and gingerly, but with honest dedication wrapped his arms around Crowley.  
  
The demon sat, unmoving at the unexpected gesture. He felt Aziraphale press closer to him, and felt the familiar flicker of what had ached inside of him. The same sensation that was akin to loneliness that had inspired Crowley to walk to the missing bookshop before. He was searching for something.  
  
"I'm not doing this because I feel it's the nice or right thing to do," said Aziraphale, quietly. Crowley felt the angel's chin tap against his shoulder as he spoke. "You can't leave me alone."  
  
"You'll hate yourself for asking me to stay," whispered Crowley, staring unfocused down the hallway at the closed front door. Just a few steps away.  
  
"I can't be alone," argued the angel. "I went back to heaven and…and I prayed just as you said I should, but it didn't do any good. I was alone and…and I…it was so empty." Aziraphale felt himself starting to babble a little and encouraged it. Anything to make the time stretch a little longer and to keep Crowley here. "Maybe I do hate that I need you so much, but it doesn't change that I do."  
  
"Aziraphale…this..it doesn't make anymore sense. I haven't been able to think straight since after Hastur tried to get rid of me."  
  
"That shouldn't matter," said Aziraphale, his grip tight. "You're you."  
  
"And what's that? I'm not even really Hell's delegate up here anymore. It's…" Crowley shifted, trying to work his way out of the angel's arms. "It's useless."  
  
"Why does any of that matter?" exclaimed the angel. Desperation now flooded Aziraphale's words we he realized what would happen should Crowley leave. He held the demon's thin form closer to him as if to meld him permanently to himself. 

"Crowley…please. Even if it's just for me, don't go."  
  
He felt Crowley still at his words. But he continued to keep his hold on him, fearful of loosening it even the slightest.  
  
After a prolonged silence, Aziraphale felt Crowley's throat contract against his shoulder as he spoke. "I'm sorry," he whispered.  
  
The fear that had been spilling into the angel was now rushing in like a flood. In one horrible moment, Aziraphale imagined the loneliness that he had felt in heaven and on earth without Crowley stretching out before him for all eternity. A cold terror paralyzed him and he couldn't think of anything else to say. But the chill of it began to thaw when he felt something press against his own back and realized it was Crowley's arms, finally returning the hug.  
  
"I'm sorry, angel," repeated Crowley, mournfully. "I should have gotten to you before Lynch did. I'm sorry." There was no further movement from the demon and he seemed perfectly contented to stay just where he was.  
  
Feeling the warmth spread from his back throughout this body in a calming embrace, Aziraphale smiled. It was a weak smile, but for the first time in awhile, it reached the angel's eyes.


	12. Order

Well, here it is. The last chapter. This concludes this saga as I can't really think of what comes next. I'll let Aziraphale and Crowley live the rest of their lives here on out in peace.

So, with all the angst I had poured into this, I felt this sudden need to give some people a sugary happy conclusion. Or at least one person a conclusion. But there's enough schmaltz here to fill my sugar quota for the week, I think. 

Thanks for reading!

******************

High above the busy London streets, a figure stood on top of the British Museum. Normally, having someone on the roof of the Museum would have caused a bit of a panic. But in this case, no one seemed to notice. The tall young man was dressed in an immaculate white suit that contrasted violently with his dense, black hair. 

He studied the hordes of Londoners going about their lives and smiled a smile that often flitted across the faces of young children just before they stomped on a line of worker ants going about their business. 

"Now, now," tutted a newcomer. 

Turning around, Lucifer's smile widened as he took in newly arrived man, dressed in tan robes and sandals. Despite the reproachful tone, there was still a great deal of kindness in his face, framed by long light brown hair.

"That's a new look for you," commented the Lord, noting the black hair and suit. "It's quite nice."

"And I see you went with a classic," replied Lucifer. 

The sandaled man shrugged. "I like to have a laugh every now and then."

"It's really too bad you didn't have this sense of humor when I was still working for you."

The Lord only smiled enigmatically at that comment, to which Lucifer shrugged, looking as if he had expected a response like that. "So, have you given some thought to who you'll be assigning soon?" asked the Lord.

"I've got a few in mind," replied Lucifer, nonchalantly. "They need some work, but…I figure in a few years someone will be ready for a trial run. What about you?"

"The same," he answered. "I'll be sure to let you know when I've made a decision."

The other man snorted. "Please. You really think I won't just know?"

"You never change, do you?" replied the Lord, mildy.

"I think my first change filled my quota," deadpanned Lucifer.

The two men looked at each other for a beat before they began to snigger uncontrollably. After awhile they sobered up. 

"You know, if we decide to stick this plan," mused Lucifer. "It could be years…centuries…eons really before we'd be able to effectively tally up whose got more than who."

"Have you got something else to do?" asked the Lord. 

"Not at all. I'm just saying…we'll need this planet as a playing field for a lot longer than we thought."

"Than _you_ thought, you mean," corrected the sandaled man.

Lucifer scowled momentarily at that comment, but soon let a small, sardonic smile drift upon his face. "Bastard," he muttered. The Prince of Darkness peered back down toward the hordes of people going about their day. A strong gust of wind blew past, momentarily unsettling the dark strands of hair before they re-settled perfectly on his head. "Getting human souls was fun. Is fun, really," mused Lucifer, watching a few pedestrians pop open their umbrellas. "But it'll be nice to see how many angels I can get by the end of this game." 

"Or how many minions you might lose," pointed out his companion.

"Nothing says I've lost Crowley."

"Or that you gained Aziraphale." 

Lucifer grinned. "Give me some time."

The Lord only smiled back, benignly. "The same amount of time you'll be giving me. When the War comes again, it'll be interesting to see where those two will put their alliance. They are after all, the first set." 

"Guess we'll know in a few million eons and several sets of angels and demons later."

"True."

A grin suddenly split the black-haired man's face. "Did you just tell me YOU don't know?" 

His companion shook his head, the waves of light brown hair drifting from side to side against the long face that was currently sporting an expression of mild exasperation. "Oh, grow up Lucifer." 

**

It had been about three weeks since Walter had bid goodbye to Aziraphale. He woke up in his rental house in Phoenix and noted from the sunlight coming in that it would be a good day for a bike ride somewhere. 

Yawning, he padded into his kitchen, donning a bathrobe over his shorts and tee-shirt and put the kettle on. Despite going more or less native to America, Walter had never quite lost his English predilection for tea. Pouring himself a steaming mug, he took it with him as he went outside to go to his mailbox that sat on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the house.

There were a few magazines in there, a couple of bills, a letter from his father, which Walter thought was odd, and a single folded piece of paper that had only his name written on it. Puzzled, Walter took a sip of tea and opened it. On the immaculate white piece of paper was a simple message, written in fine, copperplate lettering:

_Dear Walter, _

_Thank you. Walk two steps forward._

A confused, but amused smile drifted on Walter's face as he stared down at the note. He wondered if was from Aziraphale, but that seemed unlikely. Why did the he just call him up or something? But as he continued to stare down at the note, Walter walked two steps forward into the street. 

A sudden shriek pierced the air and Walter was suddenly very well aware of something metallic hitting his hip as well as a bell ringing incessantly in his ears. He felt a flash of pain down his front as the mug of tea he had been holding splashed its contents on his shirt as he was knocked onto the road. 

_Hot! Hot! Very hot!!_ shouted Walter's brain. He was also suddenly aware of something very icy seeping into the seat of his shorts. _Cold! Cold! Very cold!!! _

He pulled the now steaming tee-shirt away from his chest a little as he got to his feet and off the ice cubes he had fallen on. There was an upturned bicycle on the road beside him as well as a half-open icebox that had spilled its contents. The owner of the bike and box was scrambling to her feet, her red helmet and matching kneepads having done their job. 

"What are you doing walking into the middle of the street?" she demanded, stopping her frantically spinning upturned bike wheel. "You could have gotten yourself killed!" 

"S-sorry," apologized Walter, lamely as he clutched his shirt. "I..uhh…" 

The young woman paid no attention to the sputtering words as she scrambled to shove the rapidly melting ice back into the box where a few sandwiches were poking out. 

"Here, let me help," offered Walter, bending down to gather a few cubes. 

"No, never mind," said the woman, shoving aside Walter's hands. "Are you hurt?" she asked, suddenly. "You've cut your hand," she added in the same breath, sounding genuinely concerned, if a bit irritated.

Staring down at the cut on his right wrist, Walter felt a small twinge of pain, but he shook it off, acutely aware that it would look stupid to make a deal of something so trivial. 

"Oh no! It's bent!" lamented the woman, who had managed to put her bicycle right side up. The front wheel tilted off to one side.

Walter stared for a moment as the young woman uselessly kicked her mal-formed bike. Somewhere in the back of his mind, nestled with all the other thoughts Walter had thought of in his life, but had been too preposterous for him to think could truly be real enough to think of it too consciously, he recalled a conversation:

_"Is there…err…anything you want?"_

_"Well, what does any man want? Some direction to go in life, a good woman, happiness.."_

Walter shook his head a little. The sounds of the young woman cursing and saying something about deliveries brought him back to focus in on the brownish tea that had dripped to a rather embarrassing part of his shorts. He closed his robe, ignoring the discomfort of wet clothes sticking to his skin.

"Listen," he said to the woman who finally finished beating up her broken bike. She glanced up at him and for a split second, Walter forgot what he had been about to say. "I've got a bike," he said, finding his words. "Give me five minutes to change and I'll give you a lift." 

**

It took some time, but slowly Aziraphale learned to let go. 

Days after he had found Crowley again, the angel couldn't let go of a constant fear that if he left Crowley alone the demon would run off and find his aforementioned church. Despite annoyed protests, Aziraphale hovered over Crowley while the demon ate, while the demon drank, and while the demon got re-acquainted with his powers and demonic tendencies. Though perhaps not the epitome of angelic countenance, Aziraphale was still an angel and had troubles keeping his immediate feelings hidden. 

Crowley, on the other hand, though of angel stock, as a demon had mastered the art of deception long ago and was more adept at swathing his emotions in sarcasm and disdainful looks. But there were a few things that betrayed the fact that Crowley was as nervous as Aziraphale. 

For one thing, he forwent sleeping. As Aziraphale could testify, having spent every moment with Crowley since their meeting in Wisconsin, the demon would stretch himself out on a bed, but would never fully close his eyes, worrying that should he do so, all of it would turn out to be an elaborate dream. Luckily, Crowley had no need for sleep. Though he did miss it. 

He also strangely did not invest in a new car. 

"Don't you miss driving?" asked Aziraphale, finally. The two being sat side by side o a bench near a small pond in Central Park. Aziraphale had never been to New York before. Crowley had been the one to suggest the place. In his hand, the demon held a small loaf of dried bread that he crumbled and tossed into the pond. There was a "Do Not Feed the Ducks" sign posted in clear view. Spotting it, Aziraphale worked to blink the soggy crumbs out of existence before the ducks could reach them, confusing the birds as they dashed madly to one spot to find it empty of any kind of food. 

"I actually don't mind the walking too much," replied Crowley. He threw one piece of bread as far as it could go. It vanished into thin air before it hit the water. "By the way, what did you do with the Bentley? I remember leaving the keys with you…or near you at least." 

"I put the keys in the car and left the door unlocked."

Crowley thought for a moment. "Doesn't that tempt one to break the whole 'Thou Shall Not Steal' commandment?" 

"But I gave the car away," argued Aziraphale. "I left the keys there on purpose. It was for anyone to take." The angel blinked rapidly at a few more pieces of bread Crowley threw into the water. The ducks quacked irritably. 

The demon growled slightly, whether it was news over his car or the fact that the angel had beaten him with every crust of bread. Crowley waved a hand that had been holding the last scraps of bread. The pieces flew individually at one separate duck at bullet speed and nearly knocked them unconscious as they made contact with each beak. Aziraphale saw a slight grin ghost across the demon's face at the sight and felt strangely content. 

Now out of bread, the demon dusted his hands of any stray crumbs. "What about your bookshop? Don't you miss it?" 

"I do a little," sighed Aziraphale, wistfully. "But I suppose I had to say goodbye to it at some point."

Crowley rather missed it himself, but he kept that comment to himself. After the somewhat emotional display he put on that night in Wisconsin, he was hesitant to let himself go again. Kindly, Aziraphale seemed to pick up on that. Crowley was silently grateful for the sensitive nature of angels for that. He was grateful to Aziraphale for that. And finally, hesitantly, but steadily, his gratitude did not feel mixed with any kind of resentment or self-loathing. 

This was Aziraphale he was thinking about. An angel, yes. The Enemy….maybe once. Crowley felt fearful of stating absolutely that Aziraphale was no longer his enemy….but he did contemplate it often. 

Leaning back, Aziraphale rested his arms along the back of the wooden bench while Crowley continued to sit, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees. His eyes studied the ducks that were now gliding more apprehensively across the waters. From his angle, the angel studied his counterpart, not for the first time with a mixture of apprehension and affection. He had learned to like Crowley because the demon challenged him in ways that not many other evil opponents did. You couldn't predict Crowley. A factor that now still endeared the demon to Aziraphale as well as worry him a little. 

But he would soon learn to let Crowley be from time to time. Soon. Relatively soon.

"You know what I haven't done in a long time?" said Aziraphale. Crowley tilted his head from gazing at the pond and quirked a curious eyebrow. "Taken a nap."

The demon snorted softly "You took a nap just last year, angel," he stated. "Considering you've been around since the beginning of creation, I'd think your definition of 'long time' would be a bit longer than one year."

"Was it really just a year ago?" asked Aziraphale, vaguely.

"Yeah," calculated Crowley. "You said you fell asleep after the whole thing with Hastur and..." The demon trailed off, feeling regretful of bringing it up. But Aziraphale didn't let the mild awkwardness last too long. 

"I'd like to try and take a nap when I'm actually relaxed," said Aziraphale with a slight smile. "And not because I'm upset." 

Crowley stared back out at the pond and the ducks that were now milling around the water, carelessly again. Birds tended to do that. Forget what happened just a few moments ago. Crowley felt a strange resentment toward them for that. "Well," he began, casually. "If you do want to try a nap. I recommend the Wardorf. They've got brilliant beds." Aziraphale's unspoken question hung in the air. "I'm not in the mood to nap myself." 

The demon supposed he could just come clean and tell Aziraphale he was just afraid. Afraid that he might close his eyes and open them to find he was back in the Dump. Or just alone. But he still had his pride, which got in the way of things like that. Crowley realized Aziraphale had been saying something and caught the tail-end of the last sentence.

"....when you wake up."

Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale. 

"What?"

"I said, I promise I'll be around when you wake up."

"I thought you were working to learn to let go a little," said Crowley.

He saw a frown noticeably stain Aziraphale's face. "Is that's what you want...."

At the sight of the frown, some of the pride fell away. "No, forget I said that," said Crowley. He rethought Aziraphale's words. If there was one thing Crowley knew he could trust, it was the promise made by an angel. So maybe he'd try giving sleeping another try. 

He rose from the bench, silently inviting Aziraphale to follow, which the angel did. They walked past a small ice cream vendor that was giving a fresh cone to a small boy. Crowley felt an urge to melt the icy treat so that it would splatter onto the child's shirt. But then he got distracted by something Aziraphale asked him and forgot about it. Later, Aziraphale would spot a parked bicycle that had a flat tire. A desire to fix it would fill the angel, but then Crowley would mention a used bookstore he had heard about in New York City called the Strand and Aziraphale never got around to it.

So it seemed it was business as usual. Both of them going in the same direction from opposite ends. Going away from where they started and where they would end...that was anyone's guess. Almost anyone.

THE END


End file.
